Leverage
by AlohaRose
Summary: Family movie night turns into a terrifying race against time as Danny returns from a snack run to find Steve, Charlie, and Grace gone, the house riddled with bullets, and blood spattered on the floor. [No slash, protective Steve, Steve whump, brotherly love]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi friends, this is my first Five-0 fanfiction. Please let me know how I'm doing. I'll post updates as soon as I am able. This story is rated T for violence and language. This is the only warning I will give, so please keep that in mind as you read. I hope you enjoy the first chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Steve opened the front door and was immediately bombarded by a little boy wearing a Superman t-shirt.

"Uncle Steve!" Charlie cried, latching onto his waist.

Steve stumbled back, grinning. "Hey, buddy." He placed a hand on the boy's blond head. "You excited for movie night?"

Charlie looked up, maintaining his grip. "Yeah!"

Danny ambled up the sidewalk with Grace trailing behind, tapping away on her cell phone. She didn't even spare a glance at the front steps as she ascended to the porch. Steve was impressed.

"Charlie, let your uncle breathe, huh?" said Danny, pushing past them.

With Charlie shrieking in delight, Steve grabbed the boy and effortlessly slung him over his shoulder. He closed the door as Grace entered, and dropped Charlie onto the couch, pretending to do a wrestling take-down move while roaring like a lion.

"Hey, can you please not break my child's bones?" Danny groused, tossing a DVD onto the coffee table. "He's spent enough time in the hospital, thank you."

Steve snorted. "He's fine. Right, Charlie?"

"Right!" Charlie squealed, giggling as Steve assaulted his belly with tickling fingers.

"Careful," warned Danny, "or he'll want to come to Uncle Steve's house _every_ weekend."

"At least there's TV here," muttered Grace.

Danny sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't remind me."

Less than an hour ago, Steve had received a phone call from his partner, which he thought odd, considering Danny had the kids this weekend and preferred to soak up every minute with them instead of thinking about anything remotely work-related. As the family settled in for a night of movies, the television had sparked and released tendrils of white smoke, which didn't surprise Steve at all, considering the situation was just so _Danny_. In fact, the smoldering television didn't concern Steve more than Danny's choice of movie. _Lassie_? Really?

And Steve, being the wonderful friend that he was, kindly agreed to host movie night at his place. For one, the kids didn't deserve to miss out on family bonding time due to their father's innate misfortunes, and two, this meant Danny owed Steve a favor— and Steve would have been an idiot to pass up that opportunity.

Grace plopped into the armchair, eyes glued to her phone. Steve didn't blame her. He'd rather be on his phone than watching Danny's trash movie, too.

Steve clapped his hands together. "Well," he said. "Let's get this thing started."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Danny, looking offended. "We can't just _start_ the movie."

Steve stared at him blankly. "Sorry, I figured movie night included, perhaps, watching a movie."

"Yes, it does, but first we have to make preparations. We need snacks, and drinks. You can't just enjoy a piece of cinematic gold without popcorn. It's a necessity."

"Okay, let's take a step back here. Did you seriously just say _Lassie_ is cinematic gold?"

"Of course I did, because it is. It's a classic."

Steve threw out his hands, incredulous. "You want to know what a true classic is, Danny?" He strode to his small drawer of movies next to the television and rifled inside. He held up a plastic case for his partner to see. " _Die Hard."_

"Die Hard?" Danny echoed.

 _"Die Hard_ ," Steve confirmed. "Do you want me to keep going? _Patriot Games. Air Force One. Saving Private Ryan_ — _"_

 _"_ Okay, let me ask you something," interrupted Danny. "Do you think any of these so-called classics are appropriate for a five-year-old and a fourteen-year-old?"

Steve crossed his arms. "Yes, Danny, I do."

"What was I thinking? Of course you do."

"Kids need to be exposed to the real world, Danny. The violence in these films are accurate portrayals of real life, you can't be sugarcoating—"

Grace interrupted, finally looking up from her phone. "Danno, can we just watch the movie?"

Danny glared at Steve, putting an end to their disagreement. "Yes, we can watch the movie. _Our_ movie. The one we chose as a family."

Steve scoffed.

"Now," Danny said, heading towards the kitchen. "Where's the popcorn?"

Steve followed, frowning. "I don't have popcorn."

Danny halted to a stop. He placed his palms flat on the kitchen table and squinted in disbelief at his friend. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I don't have popcorn," Steve repeated, shrugging.

"What kind of neanderthal doesn't have popcorn? It's practically a kitchen staple!" Danny pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Oh, right. Your kitchen is probably stocked with... I don't know, with meat from a pig you hunted and butchered yourself. Or trail-mix, or those little packets of powdered protein—"

Annoyed, Steve cut him off. "Danny, it's not the end of the world. Just go out and get some popcorn. The kids and I will stay here and make some nachos."

"You have stuff for nachos, but no popcorn?"

"Of course."

"Unbelievable."

Steve flashed his best grin while Danny rolled his eyes and stalked back into the living room.

Truth be told, Steve didn't exactly have a reason to keep a stash of microwave popcorn in the house. Back when Catherine was around, the two would snuggle up on the couch and pop in a DVD or two, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Lynn would much rather go out than stay cooped up inside, so a night of movies hadn't been on Steve's agenda in quite some time.

Still, he was glad he didn't have any snacks, because Danny's overreaction was priceless.

As Danny dug in his pockets for his car keys, Steve noticed his partner still wore his holster and badge. Even while off duty, Steve and Danny had both made it a habit to keep their weapon close at all times. After being assigned to Five-0 for so long, it was hard to feel truly safe without it.

"Hey, guys," said Danny, "Danno's gotta run to the store to get some popcorn, because Uncle Steve neglected to mention on the phone that he doesn't have any."

"I'm still failing to see how I am to blame for any of this," Steve deadpanned.

Danny ignored him. "I'll be back in half an hour," he told the kids. He then sent a pointed look towards Charlie. "Don't cause any trouble for Uncle Steve, got it?"

Charlie raised his thumb in the air. "Got it."

"Bye, Danno," Grace said absently, once again messaging friends on her phone.

"Love you, see you soon."

"Love you, Danno!" Charlie cried, bouncing on the couch. Danny smiled and ruffled his young boy's hair.

"Love you, Danno," Steve mimicked jokingly as Danny stepped outside. He smirked at his partner's glower, visible for only a second before he descended the porch and disappeared into the muggy night. Steve closed the door behind him and locked it.

The massive pessimistic fog that loomed above Danny's head left with him, thank god. So what if Steve didn't have popcorn? So what if he never bought it because he didn't have anyone to share it with? Danny could have at least thanked him for saving his Friday night. Jerk.

For revenge, perhaps Steve could convince the kids to watch one of his movie choices instead. Spending ninety minutes of their lives watching buildings and heads explode was much more exciting than a dumb story about a boy and his dog.

Steve nonetheless kept his promise of nachos and managed to usher both kids into the kitchen. Grace found a seat at the table with her phone in front of her, while Charlie stuck to Steve's side, eager to help make the cheese for Steve McGarrett's Famous Spicy Nachos.

"Why are they so famous?" Grace asked.

"Famous among friends," replied Steve, rifling through the fridge for a block of cheese.

"That doesn't count."

He huffed. "Does too."

"Does not."

"Does too."

"It totally doesn't."

He frowned and looked to Charlie to support. "Can you believe this?"

The young boy just giggled.

Steve shook his head and instructed Charlie to find a big bowl while he grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the stove top for Charlie to reach. "There is a trick to making nacho cheese, Charlie. I am going to pass down my secret to you. But you have to keep it between us, alright? I don't want your dad stealing my recipe."

Charlie nodded excitedly.

"See," instructed Steve, tossing the cheese into the warming pan, "the trick is the spices. You want to add enough to feel the burn on your tongue, but not enough to where our mouths are on fire. You getting this?"

The boy nodded again, focusing hard on Steve's movements.

Steve smiled. God, he loved these kids.

"Uncle Steve?" said Grace, giving an irritated sigh.

"What is it, Gracie? Do you want in on the secret recipe?"

"I just lost reception."

Steve turned. She sat looking defeated, futilely attempting to resend a text message.

"Did your dad forget to pay the bill, or what?" he joked, holding out a hand. "Let me see."

He ignored whatever conversation she was having with her friends, focusing on the _failed to send_ message repeatedly popping over the screen. Upon inspection of her phone's settings, he saw that the Wi-Fi was disconnected, and a small 'no service' icon blinked on the drop down bar.

Steve hummed in thought. "Maybe you have to restart it?"

He barely got the words out when the entire house went black.

The McGarrett home had lost power before. Often during a storm Steve found he was unable to flip on the lights. But tonight the sky was dotted with stars, and a gust of wind hadn't rattled the shutters since this morning. He doubted a fuse was to blame, either. His gut churned with a twinge of suspicion.

"Can we still watch movies?" Charlie asked.

Steve didn't have time to respond.

A horrifying noise made the kids yelp. Steve hesitated for only a moment as his brain registered the sound as shattering glass. And it was _loud_.

Every bit of military training flooded through his mind. He'd always been quick to react in emergency situations, but the thought of Danny's kids in danger made Steve fear the bolt of terror that surged through his body would paralyze him to the spot.

He met Grace's wide, frightened eyes. "Get in the pantry," he whispered fiercely. "Get in the pantry _now_."

She sprang to her feet, grabbing her useless phone out of habit. Steve turned swiftly and scooped Charlie from the chair behind him. In three giant steps he was by the pantry door, shoving Grace inside and placing Charlie on the ground.

"What's happening?" Grace whispered, fearful tears in her eyes.

Steve pushed Charlie next to his sister, ears straining to listen for approaching footsteps behind. "I'm not sure. Stay here, do _not_ move. Don't make a sound, got it?"

The two nodded. Charlie's expression was more confused than afraid.

Steve tugged on the young boy's shirt and forced an assuring smile. "Don't leave your sister, okay, Superman?"

Charlie returned the grin as Grace took his small hand and clasped it into hers.

Steve eased the door closed, latching it as quietly as he could manage. Despite the nervous sweat that had broken across his skin, his mind was a focused, straight plane. Instinctively, he reached for the gun at his waist.

Damn it. It was upstairs in the nightstand. He'd hidden it away when he'd learned the kids were coming.

There was shuffling in the living room. Multiple footsteps. Glass crunching under boots. Steve made a dive for the knife block on the counter and snatched the first knife his fingers touched.

He had just secured the handle in his grip when the first man entered the kitchen.

Dressed in all black, including a ski mask over his face, the man turned to Steve with a raised assault rifle.

The realization hit Steve instantly: a knife against a gun wouldn't win. He had to act quick.

He propelled himself full force at the man, catching him completely off guard. His body slammed into the stranger's, knocking him against the counter. A gasp burst from the intruder's mouth as the air was forced from his lungs. Steve took advantage of his surprise attack and raised a knee, which he rammed into the man's gut, causing him to double over. He swung a fist and made contact with the guy's chin, delivering a bone-shattering uppercut.

Two other men from the living room began to close in, rifles ready. Steve let his knife clatter to the floor for exchange of the fallen intruder's gun. He ripped the weapon from the intruder's hands, but didn't have time to point the barrel.

A bright flash of light cut across Steve's vision before the pain had a chance to hit.

The butt of the second guy's rifle had cracked against his forehead, sending him stumbling over the unconscious man's body. He landed backwards, grimacing from the heavy ache pounding through his skull.

In the mere second Steve McGarrett laid on his own kitchen floor, two thoughts came to mind.

The first was that these men, whoever they were, had professional experience.

The second: they didn't want him dead.

Not one bullet had been fired since the men had burst through his living room window. The second intruder had a perfect opportunity to bury a bullet in his brain, but had instead went for a knock-out. Steve knew he wasn't in danger of dying in his own home; he was in danger of being taken from it.

That couldn't happen.

On his back, disoriented from the blow that had taken him—a seasoned Navy SEAL—to the ground, Steve blindly pulled the trigger of the rifle he had clutched to his chest. A string of bullets was released at his attacker. A cry of pain let him know that at least one shot had made contact.

Blinking away spots that danced across his vision, Steve scrambled to his feet, ready to fight off the remaining men. His finger poised on the trigger, Steve prepared to fire the gun yet again.

A hard blow to the middle of his shoulder blades had him taking a steadying step forward, nearly into the arms of one of the intruders. Out numbered and dazed, strong hands secured his arms. Someone kicked the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. Steve squirmed and struggled, but darkness hung at the edges of his vision, slowing his movements.

He was dragged into the living room, wrists zip-tied at his front. Three men, including the one he thought he'd knocked unconscious, stood before him where he sat, propped against the couch, panting hard.

"Who the hell are you?" Steve spat. He tugged uselessly at the restraints on his wrists. The hard plastic dug painfully into his flesh.

The three men all exchanged glances, then slung their rifles over their shoulders. One of them peeled away his ski mask, revealing an unfamiliar face.

"You don't know?" he asked.

"You'll have to refresh my memory."

It may have been the head trauma, but Steve didn't recognize the man at all. He was Caucasian, maybe thirty-five years old, with fair hair and dark stubble on his chin. His tanned skin told Steve he was from the island, or had been visiting for at least a few weeks. He noticed a fresh tear in the man's shirt, on his upper arm. It was difficult to see in the dark, but Steve knew it was bleeding from his bullet. He silently cursed at himself for only leaving the guy with a shoulder wound.

"Look what I found."

Another voice made Steve's heart nearly jump out of his chest.

Being a trained SEAL, Steve had learned to control his fear. He knew how to shove it aside, to prevent it from overriding his judgment or his senses. Containing fear was exhausting, both mentally and physically. Luckily, years of training had numbed him. It was rare for Steve McGarrett to get truly afraid.

This time, he was.

A fourth man staggered out of the kitchen, Grace's arm clutched in his right hand, Charlie's in the left. Grace grunted and tugged at the man's grip, though Steve caught the glimmer of tears on her face.

"Uncle Steve!" she screamed. She nearly tore out of the man's grasp, but he yanked her forward and pushed her to the ground. She gasped, landing on her hands and knees.

Charlie cried out, babbling incoherently around tears.

"Hey!" Steve shouted, fighting away his diminishing vision and the pressure building in his ears. "Let them go! They haven't done anything to you, they're just kids."

The unmasked man stepped over Grace and punched Steve square in the jaw.

"No!" screeched Charlie, writhing against his captor's grasp.

Blood gushed from Steve's lip, staining his teeth and filling his mouth with a metallic tang. "Listen to me," he said, forcing his voice steady. "Listen. Whatever you want, just take it. You want me? That's fine, I'll cooperate." He chanced a glance at Grace, who didn't take her eyes off him. "Just leave the kids out of this. They don't know anything, they won't say a word—"

"Shut up," sneered the blond man, seizing Steve by the collar of his shirt. "Talk again and I'll blast her brains all over your face."

Grace sobbed.

Steve swallowed, hard. Charlie had given up and sank to the floor, his captor still clutching his arm. The man looked uncertainly to the blond guy, who ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.

"What are we going to do with these kids?" the second guy said. "I didn't know McGarrett was a babysitter."

"I ain't killing no kids," the third man said.

The one holding Charlie yanked him closer. "I'll kill 'em. Who cares?"

"No, please, don't!" Grace cried, twisting around to face her brother. "Please don't hurt him."

"Danno!" Charlie screamed.

Steve locked eyes with Blondie, who, thankfully, seemed to ignore the kids. Charlie's cry for his father reminded Steve that Danny had left no more than fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he could stall enough time for Danny to return. There was no way his partner would miss the broken window, or whatever vehicles were presumably parked out front. Danny could call for back-up, get the team down here—

"I have a better idea," Blondie finally said, interrupting Steve's thoughts. "Bring them with."

The other three men complied without question. The man restraining Charlie picked the young boy off the ground and carried him across the room, kicking and screaming for Uncle Steve and Danno.

"No, no, Charlie!" Steve panted, panic creeping in. "Leave him out of this!"

"Uncle Steve!" Grace was next, one man grabbing each arm and hoisting her off the floor. She pleaded for her uncle, who had no choice but to watch helplessly as she was dragged out the door behind her brother.

Through the open door, Steve watched the kids be shoved unceremoniously into the trunk of an SUV. He squinted through his hazy vision, searching for a license plate, a distinguishing mark, _anything_ to identify the vehicle.

He turned back to the unmasked man, who loomed over him like a black tower.

"If you hurt those kids," Steve said, voice quivering with rage, "I swear to god, I will kill every single one of you."

Blondie didn't flinch from the threat. He grunted as he swung back his fist. Steve braced for the blow to the face, powerless to defend himself. Pain shot through his temple, blinding him, muffling his hearing, finally pulling him down. Head throbbing, he fell on his side, barely clinging to consciousness. Two men, returning from outside, took Steve by the arms and lifted him up, preparing to pull his limp body out of the house.

The unmasked man knelt beside him. Blood dripped steadily from his shoulder wound and pattered to the floor. He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to Steve's ear.

"Good luck."


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the wait! This chapter seemed a lot longer than it turned out to be. I think some of the next ones will be longer. Thanks for all the follows, faves, and reviews. I really appreciate everyone's support!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

The first thing Danny noticed as he pulled into the driveway was that the house was black.

Great. Steve had probably coaxed the kids to start the movie without him and had turned off the lights for a theater effect. Even worse, he could have convinced them to watch some bloody war movie that would undoubtedly give Charlie nightmares for the next three weeks.

Heaving a sigh, Danny grabbed the plastic grocery bag off the passenger seat. He'd gotten an entire box of microwave popcorn and a couple of two-liter bottles of soda for the night. The kids deserved a fun movie experience, one they would remember fondly for the next few years. Grace was fourteen now, and Danny found it increasingly difficult to dissuade her from spending time with her friends on the weekends she was supposed to be with Danny. He wanted Grace to have a healthy relationship with her friends, sure, but how long would it be before she was 'too cool' to spend a Friday evening with her dad and little brother?

Danny didn't worry about Charlie. Not yet, anyway. He was at the stage where everything different was fun. Five years old meant Charlie was old enough to follow basic story lines and differentiate between several characters, but young enough to have trouble sitting still for two hours. Danny had a suitcase of Matchbox cars stashed in the trunk in case Charlie became too squirmy.

Grocery bag in hand, Danny cut the engine of the Camaro and stepped into the night. Moisture thickened the air, the humidity making it hard to breathe. It was a good thing he hadn't planned a backyard camp-out, like he'd considered earlier in the week. It would have been miserable.

He started up the sidewalk, shoving his keys in his pockets. He expected to see the glow from the TV reflecting in the front window, but didn't see a thing aside from the curtains fluttering softly in the light breeze.

Wait. The curtains. Why were the curtains moving?

The bag dropped from his hand.

The plastic bottles of soda rolled down the sidewalk, coming to a stop at the grassy boulevard. Danny drew his gun slowly, eyes never breaking from the front of the house. Steve's living room window was gone, aside from stray pieces of jagged glass that protruded from the windowsill like teeth.

 _No_ , Danny thought, a tight knot of terror twisting in his stomach. _No, no, no, no..._

Beads of hot, nervous sweat broke out across his skin. Treading lightly, Danny crept up to the lanai, keeping his head low and gun high. He first tried the door, which he found locked. No time to run around back—Steve could be in trouble. His _kids_ could be in trouble.

Danny moved to the window. He squinted his eyes in the dark, paranoia causing him to misread every shadow as an ominous figure waiting to strike. He swiped a hand across his brow, quickly clearing the sweat from dripping into his eyes.

Danny sucked in a deep breath and holstered his gun. With his weapon at his side he felt completely vulnerable. Perhaps someone was inside, just waiting for Danny to be caught off guard. Either way, it didn't matter. He was going in, he _had to go in,_ and he couldn't climb through the window, gun in hand, without fear of his weapon accidentally discharging.

Finding an area clear of glass, Danny braced himself against the windowsill. With a small jump, he swung a leg over the threshold and touched the wood floor of the living room. Immediately, his gun was back in his grip. Regaining his balance from the climb, he whipped left and right, scanning frantically for any sign of movement. He didn't dare call out a name until he was certain the house was clear.

His mind reeled. Danny pressed his back against the wall and fumbled for the light switch next to the door. He flipped it once. Twice. Nothing.

Nausea clawed at his insides, threatening to bring bile to the back of his throat. He pointed his gun to the stairs leading to the bedroom loft, examining the darkness for intruders. Deeming it safe, Danny inched into the living room, shoes crunching softly on a sea of broken glass. Risking a glance down, he saw the first thing that truly made his knees weak.

Blood.

Even in the dim moonlight, Danny could see the dark splotches. The entire floor was dotted with round drops, and the wall near the kitchen... _Oh, god_ , the wall near the kitchen had a red line splattered across the white paint, right over a string of gaping bullet holes that were clearly not fired from Steve's gun, embedded deep into the drywall like eye sockets, glaring at him, daring him to step closer into the monster of the house, daring him to see whatever body the bullets had hit—

Danny's lungs screamed. There was no oxygen, none at all in this damned humid air. His breathing became erratic, the same way it did when he was in a tunnel or an air duct or whatever the hell McGarrett made him crawl into while on a case. His arms trembled, and he was afraid he'd fumble his gun if he didn't lower it.

He didn't care about alerting any potential attackers. He needed to find his kids. He needed eyes on his partner. He needed confirmation that they weren't the source of the blood on the floor.

"Steve?" Danny called, breathless. "Steve? Grace?"

No answer.

Screw this.

Danny rushed into the kitchen. A pan of half-melted cheese sat on the stove top. A chair was pulled away from the table. A large chip bowl waited in the counter.

A knife gleamed on the floor.

Danny swore and turned on his heel, running down the hall. "Charlie? Grace?" he cried, frantically pulling open closet doors. Steve would have hid them. If someone came into the house and Steve had enough time, he would have hid them. " _Grace!_ Where are you, baby? Talk to me! Charlie?"

The office was empty. No Charlie curled up under the desk, no Grace frozen behind the door. He checked the bathroom—tore away the shower curtain, opened every cupboard, desperate for some sign of his children.

Danny sprinted back into the entry way and took the stairs to the bedroom two at a time. He dropped to his hands and knees, peering under the bed. There were a hundred issues of _Guns and Ammo_ stashed underneath, but nothing else. He found the closet, nearly ripping the door off its hinges, and pushed aside Steve's clothes, knocking several garments off their hangers. "Charlie? Grace? It's Danno, Danno's here."

Nothing. No one.

He stepped back, placing both hands on the top of his head. Breathe. Breathe. Oh, god, just _breathe._ You can't do this, Williams. Don't do this. Think think think. Where would they hide? If Steve hid them, where would he...?

Danny remembered the nachos, the pan on the stove. With a gasp, he barreled down the stairs and back into the kitchen, where he jerked open the pantry door.

There, on the floor, was his daughter's cell phone.

Danny snatched it up, feeling frightened tears prick his eyes. "Please, please, please," he chanted, swiping his thumb across the lock screen. He saw several texts that had failed to send, but no recent calls. Why hadn't she called him? Why hadn't she called nine-one-one?

He stumbled backwards, clutching the phone in his sweaty palm. He managed to make it to the living room before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, blood from the floor immediately soaking through his pant leg. Fingers barely functioning, he dug his own phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Chin Ho's number.

Danny listened to the ring on the other end, reminding himself to keep it together, reminding himself that the three people he cared about most in the world needed him to stay strong and focus. He forced in a deep, steady breath and held it for a good three seconds before blowing out, compelling his pulse to slow to a normal rhythm.

"Danny?"

He hadn't even realized Chin had answered. "Chin," he breathed, then cleared his throat. His tongue was heavy, hard to move into words.

"Danny, is everything okay? Aren't you with the kids this weekend?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the sting of tears. Focus. Get it together, damn it.

"Chin," he finally managed. "Chin, listen. Call up the team, get them down to Steve's house _now_. Get CSU, get HPD, get everyone down here as fast as you can."

"What? What happened?"

Danny swallowed, running his thumb across the glittery jewels covering Grace's phone, then gripped it tight in his other hand. "Steve and the kids are gone."

* * *

When Steve woke, he was blind.

For a moment he couldn't determine if his eyes were even open. He blinked hard, slowly fading back into reality. His mind felt foggy, head heavy and full. His throbbing forehead was synchronized with his heartbeat, _thudthudthud_ ing like a sickening drum. A low moan couldn't be stopped from escaping his lips.

Struggling to sit up, Steve was painfully reminded of the restraints around his wrists, giving him limited mobility of his hands. The top of his head clunked against something hard, impossible to see in the pitch black.

Wait. He was moving.

The notion jolted him to attention. The loud rumble of tires on gravel greeted his muffled ears. The SUV. He had to have been in the trunk.

Steve gritted his teeth together. Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, Navy SEAL, had been bested by four guys in thrift store ski masks. The men seemed professional at first, but the more Steve remembered, he realized he'd held back. He could have taken out those guys blindfolded, yet he'd been too cautious, too worried about a stray bullet penetrating the pantry door, too worried about making a sound that would cause the kids to scream—

Damn it. The kids.

There had been two vehicles parked on the curb, and he'd watched Charlie and Grace board one of them. He was almost certainly in the other, heading towards the same place—which could be _anywhere_ on the island. He hadn't any clue how long he'd been unconscious.

At least Danny would have noticed them gone by now. If he wasn't dead from a heart attack, he'd probably called the team and started a search. The gunshots and shattering glass likely alerted the neighbors, which meant witnesses, which meant a possible license plate was grabbed, which meant no problem. Steve just had to ride this out, stall for time and keep the kids safe for a few hours, and he'd be back home by breakfast. Whoever those guys were, they definitely wanted Steve for something, or else they would have left his body on the living room floor.

He couldn't hold back anymore. His priority was finding Charlie and Grace and keeping them safe, but in doing so, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to get the upper hand. He was still kicking his own ass for letting his caution overpower him at the house.

The vehicle slowed to a stop. Steve took several long, deep breaths to keep himself focused.

The kids were fine. They had to be.

The trunk of the vehicle popped open. Steve caught a glimpse of the starry night sky before rough hands seized his arms, demanding he stand. He complied, every muscle aching from being curled up in the cramped quarters. Blood rushed to his head, making the headache worse than ever. For a moment he swayed on his feet, but his captors kept him steady.

Steve did a quick intake of his surroundings, burning every detail into his mind. The two men who secured him at both sides were still clad in black, blending in with the night, but were unmasked. Neither were the blond man who'd initially revealed himself to Steve. The guy on his right was tall, Hispanic, and smelled of cigarettes. On his left was a white guy with a three inch scar cutting across one cheek. Wrapped around his shoulder was an old t-shirt, which Steve could see was stained with blood. He smirked, glad his bullet hit at least one of the bastards.

"Walk," barked one of the guys, nudging Steve in the back. He stiffened, but did as he was told, taking small, slow steps. He'd never been more thankful for moonlight. Two SUVs, including the one he'd been inside, sat in a gravel driveway before an old farmhouse. Relief shot through him at the sight of the second vehicle. The kids had to be close.

Also on the property was a barn and a shed, both neglected and crumbling. They sat back in the shadows, bordered by a thick line of trees and brush. It didn't seem like the type of place a tourist or hiker would simply stumble upon.

Steve was led up the gravel path to the house. He guessed it had been coated with white paint at one point in time, but wind and rain had weathered it away to reveal bare wood.

He averted his eyes to his captor's waists, hoping to get his eye on a weapon. Each man carried a pistol at his side, out of Steve's reach.

So, assault rifles _and_ pistols. Awesome. He could be walking into an armory, for all he knew.

Grabbing for a gun would have been a futile effort, anyway. The bound wrists weren't an issue—what stopped him was his nauseating headache. If he moved too quickly, he feared he'd faint. The concussion made him slow and sluggish, and if the men knew how to fight, he would be in serious trouble.

Steve struggled up two rickety front steps and into the house, which reeked of mildew and stale dust. Clearly, no one had lived there in years. Crumpled beer cans and other trash littered the floor, which glistened with moisture from the humid interior.

There were no signs of the other two men. Steve narrowed his eyes, squinting the best he could in the dark. No one bothered to flip a light.

He was guided to a door, which looked rotten and weak itself, but had two shiny padlocks securing it shut. One of the men fished out a ring of keys from his pocket and clicked the locks open.

The guy with the scar turned to Steve as he pulled open the door. "Get in."

Steve met the man's eyes, never blinking.

Sensing the challenge, the man gave Steve a hard shove on the chest. Although he'd braced for it, Steve lost his balance and tumbled backwards. The hard, wooden step slammed against his spine, causing him to cry out. Down he slid, each step a hammer against his back. He managed to tuck his legs into a roll, and landed on the cement floor like a sack of flour.

The room spun. His head hurt so bad he feared he'd cracked his skull. On his stomach now, with no use of his bound hands, Steve shifted all his weight on his forearms in an attempt to sit up. He blinked dizzily, the yellow light from a single bulb on the ceiling cutting through his blackening vision.

"Uncle Steve!"

Steve lifted his heavy head, relief shooting through him at the beautiful sound of Grace's voice. He squinted in the dim light and saw the two kids, both zip-tied the same way Steve was, sitting in the far corner of the room. Charlie leaned against his sister, his head against her shoulder, quivering.

"Oh, Gracie, thank god," Steve breathed, finding new strength to fight through his injuries. He pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, muscles screaming with every movement. In three long strides he was in front of the kids, lifting his arms and bringing their bodies into the space between.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Did they hurt you?"

Grace collapsed into Steve's embrace. "We're okay," she confirmed, voice muffled by his shirt. "We didn't know what happened to you. We were scared we would never see you again."

The messed-up part of his brain told him this was nothing but an illusion, a cruel joke played by his subconscious. The relief he felt was so immeasurable, he had to have been in a dream. He kissed the crown of Grace's head, then Charlie's. No, they had to be real. They were warm and trembling and _real_ and he couldn't leave them, not again.

Steve held them for another minute, his heartbeat finally slowing to a normal pace. He raised his arms and pulled away from the kids, giving them a quick once-over for signs of injuries. Grace wore a brave face, concern knotting her brow. Her brother's cheeks were flushed from previous tears, but seemed to be physically unharmed.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked, her voice uneven. "Your head..."

Steve reached up and felt along his forehead with his thumb. A large lump protruded from his right temple, tender and painful to the touch.

"Are you kidding me? Of course I'm okay." Steve rolled his eyes dramatically. "I survived a plane crash and a liver transplant, do you really think a bump on the head is gonna slow me down?"

Grace managed a small smile.

"We're together now," said Steve. "Everything's going to be okay, I promise you."

"Who are those guys?" asked Grace. "What do they want from us?"

Steve glanced up to the basement door. "I'm not sure yet, but I think they want me. When they found you two, they had no choice but to take you so there weren't any witnesses."

"Are they going to kill us?"

The question flipped his stomach. His captors would have no use for the kids. They wouldn't want to keep track of two extra bodies, and they certainly wouldn't release them now that the kids had seen their faces. Damn it, if Danny didn't hurry the hell up...

"Listen to me," Steve said, keeping his voice low and firm. "Nothing is going to happen to either of you. We're going to be fine. They're not going to kill us. If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't be here right now." He looked to each of their sullen faces, letting the message sink in. "When they come down here, don't say a word. Let me do all the talking. Try not to bring any attention to yourselves, understand?"

Charlie's bottom lip trembled. "I want Daddy."

Grace slid closer to him. She looped her arms around his tiny frame and held him close.

"Don't you worry about that, buddy," said Steve. "Danno could be on his way right now for all we know. He probably got back from the store as soon as we were taken. We're going to have every police officer on Oahu searching for us."

"Yeah, Charlie, Danno's the best detective in the world," Grace soothed. "He's gonna come get us."

Charlie nodded and fell quiet, resting against his sister.

There was movement upstairs, and Steve once again gazed nervously at the basement door. Although he didn't have use of his hands, he could still use his arms, elbows, and legs, which was more than enough to take out the men upstairs. They'd been foolish to bound his wrists at his front, instead of the back. Still, a weapon would be useful if it came down to fight. Steve knew from experience that no matter where he was, there was always something.

He took inventory of everything that could possibly be used as a weapon. The floor was cold, smooth concrete, so that was out. The walls were just wooden beams and crumbling drywall. One of the boards could be pulled out, if need be, as well as a nail, if he could twist one loose. There was his belt and his shoelaces, which could be used to wrap around his captor's neck. Grace's hair tie, the bracelets on her wrist, and even her sweater could have a purpose.

Steve thought of Danny. He imagined his partner there with him, scoffing as he tugged on his zip-ties. _"Okay, MacGuyver. Could you explain to me how I'm supposed to run away from the bad guys if you use my shoelaces as an instrument of torture?"_

The noise from upstairs ceased, leaving Steve and the kids in silence. He sighed and leaned against the wall, where Charlie abandoned his sister to instead lean against his uncle. Steve opened his arms as wide as he could, once again encompassing both kids. He could feel Charlie's rapid pulse and Grace's shiver, and made a silence promise that he would die rather than let them get hurt. They were brave and strong, and he was certain the team would find them soon. He just prayed it would be soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I apologize for the delay! I can't believe all the follows and faves this story has so far! Thank you all so much! This chapter was difficult to write, so bare with me. It's harder to write Steve than I thought. Again, thanks for all the feedback, and keep it coming! I love to know how I'm doing :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Danny couldn't stand still.

The scene around him was frantic, adding more anxiety to his troublesome situation. He paced back and forth over the front lawn, rubbing his sweaty palms against his slacks and raking trembling fingers through his hair. He had to move, had to do something to release some of the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. Lights from the barricade of HPD cruisers lit the front of the house in a flashing disarray of red and blue. The quick flickers caused a nauseating ache behind his eyes.

He wasn't sure where to look. Uniformed officers knocked on doors, interviewing concerned neighbors about what they may have saw or heard. A crime scene unit finished stringing yellow tape around the front of the McGarrett home. Duke briefed a group officers holding notepads and pens, furiously scribbling across the page.

Nothing was right. Nothing was right and Danny was _pissed_. His anger wove with his worry, twisting his stomach into a thick, heavy knot. His blood felt like magma, jetting to his heart and causing the dampness beneath his arms. His beautiful little monkey, his baby boy— _five years old, god damn it_ —and his best friend of almost ten years had vanished, and Danny could only remind himself that this had happened before.

The concern he felt over McGarrett was familiar. For years Steve was the prime target of Wo Fat, and Danny had spent many sleepless nights wondering if this was the day he'd finally get the phone call that Steve had been gunned down by the cockroach of a man Five-0 had chased for so long. Danny trusted his partner. He knew Steve's strength and skills better than anyone. He worried for his friend, sure, but if anyone could survive an impossible situation, it was McGarrett.

But he also knew life could be a bitch, and no one could be protected from _that._

The ground seemed to churn beneath the soles of his shoes. Danny stared at the grass, watching it move as if the earth itself was breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt his heart crawl to the back of his throat and beat against his tonsils.

Rick Peterson. That ugly face cut through his mind again and again. He was an ex-partner of Danny's from Jersey who'd kidnapped Grace several years ago as part of some convoluted revenge plot that left Stan with a bullet in his shoulder and Danny with nightmares that still plagued his sleep. Grace had spent a horrifying day locked in a dimly-lit storage unit, alone, restrained to a chair, wondering why it was taking her daddy so long to rescue her.

She been taken by some freak once already. This had _happened before_. Now, here Danny was again, that same panic choking him, swallowing him whole, wondering why his daughter had to be taken _again_ , this time with her little brother who probably wasn't old enough to truly understand what was happening.

Twice. _Twice_ his daughter had been kidnapped, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it.

Danny stumbled towards his Camaro and braced himself against the hood, wheezing. The air was too hot, his blood was too hot and he couldn't suck in enough oxygen to inflate his screaming lungs. Grace and Charlie, oh god, the kids, and Steve, and the blood on the living room floor, and the bullets in the wall...

He hadn't realized there was a hand on his shoulder until Kono's voice broke through his ringing ears.

"What?" Danny choked out, still panting.

"I said, you need to sit down."

She took his elbow gently, and forced him to turn and lean his backside against the the hood of the car. The world spun, the police lights flashed and flashed, and Danny couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't swallow—

"Danny!" Kono cried. She stepped in front of him, her grip moving to his arms and tightening to keep him from toppling over. "Danny, look at me. Look at me."

He did.

He peered into her brown eyes, seeing the determination, the steadiness. Her calm demeanor was assuring enough for him to manage a deep breath, then another, until he was no longer gasping for air like a beached whale.

"You good?" she asked, her voice as unwavering as her eyes.

Danny nodded. "Yeah," he said, then cleared his throat. The ground had ceased moving, the air had thinned. Despite the temperature, goosebumps pricked his skin. "I'm good."

Kono released her grip from his arms and stepped back. She glanced over her shoulder. "Here comes Chin."

Danny forced himself to his feet. Chin strode out the front door with Lou close behind. The men pushed past Duke and a few other officers who protected the scene. "Please tell me you have something," murmured Danny.

Before he answered, Chin's eyes traveled down Danny's frame, brow knotting in concern. Danny tried to ignore his friend's apprehension. He knew he looked like hell.

"We'll know more soon," Chin assured. His eyes dropped to the tablet in his hands, where his notes were taken. "Bullet casings were recovered from the living room and kitchen area. They appear to be from an M4, but we won't know for sure until CSU can confirm. We're also getting samples of all the blood spatter and rushing them to the lab. Hopefully we can get a hit in CODIS."

Danny managed a nod, but was disheartened. The evidence was wonderful news, but he needed answers _now_. It would take hours for the lab to process everything, and time was something they just didn't have.

Lou gestured over his shoulder, where several officers with flashlights huddled around the fuse box. "The power lines were cut, and I'm guessing they had some kind of signal jammer that kept Grace from calling for help. I know that girl is about as glued to her phone as my son; there's no way she wouldn't have made a call."

"You said you found her phone in the kitchen, right, Danny?" asked Kono.

"Yeah," he replied. "It was on the floor in the pantry."

"Okay," said Chin, attempting to establish a timeline of events. "So you leave, Steve takes the kids to the kitchen, they hear the front window break."

"The kids hide in the pantry while McGarrett goes to check things out," continued Lou.

"There's a struggle," said Kono. "One man couldn't take down Steve; there had to be several. A gun goes off, maybe the kids scream and are discovered."

"And now my kids are in the hands of a couple of psychopaths and are being used as leverage for God knows what," Danny finished. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep them from shaking.

"Danny," Chin said, gently, "we don't know that."

"Oh, we don't?" cried Danny. "Are you kidding me? Come on, Chin, you're a better detective than that."

"Let's not jump to conclusions."

"Get real, will you?" Danny threw his hands up and kicked at the ground with his shoe. "You wanna know what happened? I'll tell you what happened: someone wanted Steve, whether it be for information, revenge, whatever—and they were probably getting their asses handed to them before they found Charlie and Grace in the house. Now, I _guarantee you_ , one-hundred percent, that these freaks are either harming or threatening to harm my children unless Steve does or gives them whatever the hell they want." Danny paused, breathing hard, eyes going from face to solemn face. "And Steve'll do it, too. He'll do it. He'll do whatever they ask to protect the kids, and I don't know what scares me more."

Danny once again ran his moist hands through his hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing back emotion. Those damn lights kept flashing flashing flashing, stinging his eyes, flipping his stomach. So many bodies moved around him, so many voices spoke words that were muffled to his ears, and all he could think about was his daughter having to endure this hell _again_ , and maybe this time she wouldn't be so lucky—

"Danny," said Chin, interrupting his thoughts.

Danny spun around. "What?"

He hadn't realized Duke had approached and was speaking to them.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "What were you saying?"

Duke cleared his throat. "My guys just finished interviewing all the neighbors on this block. No one saw a thing aside from the Martins, right across the street."

"And?" Danny pressed.

"The daughter heard what she said were loud popping noises. When she looked out the window she saw two black SUVs parked in the street, and McGarrett's house completely dark."

"Did she get a plate number?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Lou sighed. "So you're saying we have nothing?"

"Unless we get a hit on that blood."

Danny felt the color drain from his face. Before the panic could tackle him, Kono spoke up.

"We should go back to HQ," she said, once again placing a hand on Danny's arm. "We'll check in with the lab, wait for a ransom call, check into Steve's email and phone records and see if he's been getting any threats lately."

"He would have told me if someone was threatening him," Danny murmured.

"Maybe not, if he didn't want to worry you," Lou said.

"It doesn't hurt to look," Chin added.

Danny turned away from his team, the lights, the sounds. He reached into his pocket, feeling his daughter's phone before grabbing his own.

"Danny?" said Kono.

He didn't bother looking back. "I need to call Rachel," he said. She needed to know he'd lost the kids. She needed to know that for the second time in Grace's young life, she was at the hands of a stranger. She needed to know that Charlie was gone with her, his innocence now tainted.

If Steve didn't make it out the situation alive, if someone hurt his kids... God damn it, if someone _touched_ even one _hair_ on their heads, Danny would be going to prison, because he'd hunt down every man involved and empty his entire magazine in their skulls.

Quivering, Danny pressed the phone to his ear.

* * *

The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered.

For the past hour, Steve stared at the harsh yellow light. His eyes were bleary and sore, but the irritation kept him from nodding off. He contemplated whipping a shoe at the lone light bulb to get it to the floor, then using a shard of glass to saw away his zip-ties. But what did it matter? He'd free his hands, but with his concussion, could he really disarm and subdue four men without backup? And could he do it without putting the kids at risk? It was too big of a gamble.

Besides, the light was comforting. The situation was frightening enough already; he didn't want the kids to sit in the dark.

Steve swallowed a yawn. He looked down at Charlie, who'd fallen asleep about thirty minutes ago. The boy had pulled his legs close to his chest and rested his head over Steve's lap. Steve ran his fingers gingerly through Charlie's hair, studied the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of an eye or a finger as he dreamed. He was at peace, seemingly eluding nightmares and retreating to his own serene world. Steve wished Charlie could stay asleep until the ordeal was over, until Danny broke down the door, the team on his six, and swooped the kids into his arms.

Grace leaned her head against Steve's shoulder, fiddling languidly with the ties around her wrists. Occasionally, Steve turned and pressed his lips against her hair, but he doubted she needed the comfort. She'd hardened, forcing herself to be strong for Charlie's sake. Steve could see the brave look in her eyes, and his chest swelled with pride. She was so much like her dad.

Danny's detective skills had influenced Grace well. As Charlie had dozed off earlier, Grace explained that when their captors forced her and her brother into their vehicle, they demanded the kids keep their heads down. Grace didn't dare sneak a peak at her surroundings, since one of the men sat right beside her. She did, however, attempt to count the turns. As well as keeping tracks of the lefts, rights, and stops, Grace counted how many seconds it took to get to one turn to another. Now, after all the terror she'd endured, most of the numbers escaped her. The one certainty was being on a straight road, driving fast, for about an hour. Oahu wasn't a big island. Steve was positive they were somewhere on the North Shore.

It was a great deduction. If Steve could somehow contact the team, he could at least give them a general location. He'd praised Grace for her smart thinking, and couldn't wait to tell Danny about his daughter's cleverness.

The light overhead flickered once more. It was accompanied with heavy footsteps from upstairs.

Steve sat up straighter. Grace's breath hitched in her throat as she also jolted to attention. He hated to do it, but he placed his bound hands on Charlie's shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

"Hey, buddy, wake up," he said, softly.

Charlie wined and rubbed at his eyes. When he realized his wrists were still tied together, he whimpered again and snuggled closer to Steve.

Above, there was the slamming of a door. More footsteps.

"Charlie, sit up," Steve said, shoving his hands beneath the small body. He forced the squirming boy upright. "Listen to me, buddy. Go sit with your sister and stay very quiet, okay?"

"Do you think the bad guys are going to come down here?" asked Grace, pulling Charlie into her lap.

Steve glanced at the basement door. As if on cue, the clacking of a swinging padlock was heard, followed by a jingle of keys. Steve scooted forward, positioning his body several feet in front of the kids. "Don't say anything unless I tell you to, understand?"

Grace nodded. Charlie pressed his face to his sister's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Everything's going to be fine," Steve whispered.

The door swung open.

At the top of the staircase loomed the blond man from before. Moonlight backlit his frame, giving him the appearance of a featureless shadow. The gun at his waist winked. He descended the stairs slowly, and though Steve couldn't see the man's face in the dark, he could feel the stranger's eyes fixed intently upon him.

The man reached the final step and was illuminated by the yellow glow of the light bulb overhead. His face was a stone slate, eyes hollow and cold. Steve racked his brain, trying to determine if he'd known the man before.

Finally, he spoke. "Do you know who I am?"

Steve raised an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated. "Am I supposed to?"

The man smirked. Steve noted that he'd changed from his previous all-black attire to a plain shirt and jeans, giving the appearance of a casual citizen.

"Jack Warner," he introduced, his voice emotionless. "Maybe you don't know me personally, but I'm sure you've heard of my friends."

He stepped into the light, just a few feet in front of Steve, holding out an arm. There on his right wrist was a muddled black and gray tattoo, so amateurishly done it was nearly unreadable. Nonetheless, Steve recognized it immediately. It was the insignia of a local gang known as the High Aces, notorious for weapon and drug trafficking.

Steve worked his mouth, thinking. The Aces maybe didn't have the knowledge of well-seasoned criminals, but they had the equipment and the connections to pull off white-collar crimes. Still, Steve was undeterred. He'd found himself in worse situations before, and Jack Warner didn't seem any different from any other wannabe badass.

"Okay," Steve finally said. On his knees, restrained wrists resting in his lap, he bore his gaze into Jack's. "So let me guess what's going on here: I put away a few of your buddies, and now you're out for revenge." He shook his head, feigning disappointment. "I gotta say, Jack, that's not very original."

Behind him, Steve heard Charlie shuffle on Grace's lap. He winced when he saw the man's eyes flick to the kids. He kept talking, hoping to recapture Warner's attention.

"Listen," said Steve. "Whatever it is that you're planning on doing, it doesn't need to involve the kids. They're innocent in all this. They have no idea what's going on."

Warner's hand fell to his waist, where it curled around the grip of his pistol. "I'm not going to decide what happens to the kids. You are." He began to pace, four steps to the left, then four to the right, eyes cast down as if in thought. "If you cooperate with me and answer all my questions, I won't lay a hand on them. You have my word."

Steve couldn't get a read on the man. He narrowed his eyes. "Okay, let's get on with it, then. What's so important that you need to tie me up in a basement?"

Warner stopped his back and forth walk abruptly. He turned on his heel, smirking menacingly. "Where are my guns, Commander McGarrett?"  
"Well, gee, I don't know. Where'd you put them?"

Apparently Mr. Jack Warner didn't have a sense of humor. Steve barely got the sentence out when the man's hand came up, still gripping the pistol, and cracked across his jaw. Steve nearly toppled over, immediately tasting blood on his tongue. He heard a gasp from Grace and a whimper from Charlie.

"You know the name Samuel Ulani?" asked Warner, giving Steve no time to recover.

Steve spat a wad of blood onto the concrete. "It rings a bell, I guess."

"You and your team put him away three months ago for possession of illegal firearms with intent to sell."

"I mean, I put a lot of people away three months ago. It's kind of my job." His jaw now throbbed in rhythm with his aching head. "But yeah, I think I know your man."

"He's not one of us. Those guns that were confiscated? They belonged to me."

Steve thought back, recalling the day he watched Danny slap a set of cuffs over Ulani's wrists. HPD had investigated a robbery where a suspect was found with a stolen gun. As part of a plea deal, the suspect gave up Ulani's name. Five-0 was called to track down Ulani and bring him in for questioning, but when Chin kicked in the man's front door, Ulani was no where to be found. Eventually, Kono was able to locate a storage locker registered under an alias. The entire unit was lined with handguns, a few semi-automatics, and enough ammo to supply an entire SWAT team. Steve had devised a stakeout, and in just twelve hours, Ulani arrived and was promptly taken into custody.

In a way, Steve felt pity for the man. Ulani wasn't evil, and probably couldn't hurt a fly—he was just dumb enough to supply weapons to people who would. He never admitted how he obtained the guns, just that he was gaining a reputation on the island for being the go-to guy for discreet supply.

If Jack Warner was looking for the guns, he was out of luck. "Listen, man," said Steve, "those guns get stored away in an evidence locker that even I don't have access to without—"

"I don't care about _those_ guns," growled Warner. He holstered his pistol. "Samuel Ulani got caught with Nerf guns compared to what I'm missing. Ulani got word of where I kept my gun cache and robbed me blind. The thing is, he only got caught with the kiddie stuff. My heavy artillery was never confiscated."

Heavy artillery? Steve was at full attention. Was Warner talking more automatics? RPGS? Explosives?

"The man knows where my guns are, Commander." Warner crossed his arms over his chest, glowering down at Steve as if he were scolding a child. "And I think you do, too."

Steve's heartbeat quickened its pace. He had no knowledge about any missing guns. Would Warner believe him when he told the truth? Should he lie, and stall for time? Normally, he wouldn't be worried, but any decision he made could impact Charlie and Grace. He needed to choose his words carefully.

"Well?" Warner pressed.

Steve's mind reeled. "Look, I don't know where your guns are, okay? We confiscated what Ulani had in his possession, but that was it. No one knew he had another stash of guns. If we'd gotten word of that, you can bet we would have been all over it. It seems to me like the only person who knows where your guns are is Ulani himself."

Steve held his breath, hoping his honesty would pay off. Warner sighed through his nose and turned, running a hand over the back of his neck, clearly pondering the situation.

"That's all I know," Steve assured. "We only heard about what was in the locker. Nothing else."

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry your little plan didn't work out, but there is nothing more I can do for you. Now keep your promise and let the kids go."

"I said, shut _up_."

Warner spun, and this time took a swing into Steve's gut. The air rushed from his lungs and he toppled onto his side, mouth gaping but unable to inhale.

Charlie immediately burst into tears.

Sputtering, Steve turned his head to the kids huddled against the wall. Charlie wailed while Grace shushed him softly, holding his head against her chest. Her eyes were wide with fear as she undoubtedly remembered Steve's warning of staying quiet.

Steve finally sucked in a mouthful of air. He struggled to sit upright, heat surging through his chest. He balled his hands into fists to keep from lashing out. Warner had taken Steve and the kids for _this_? For information about some missing guns Five-0 had never heard about? He couldn't believe the stupidity. Obviously the man hadn't thought anything through.

Steve chuckled bitterly, struggling to speak through clenched teeth. "Why are you even thinking about this, Jack? These kids have done nothing to you. They are not involved in this whatsoever. How about you man up and keep your word?"

"What did you say to me?" hissed Warner, seizing Steve by the collar.

Charlie cried louder.

Maybe it was the concussion, or maybe it was the rage building inside him, but Steve couldn't bring himself to back down. He'd been with Jack Warner for all of ten minutes and was already sick of him. "I said," Steve gritted out, "be a man and show some decency for once in your life."

He'd expected the punches, but he didn't count on them being so strong. His brain rattled against his skull, and the next thing he knew he was on his back staring at that damned light bulb.

The sight of Steve being injured made Charlie scream, and Grace began rocking him in her arms, stifling her own cries of alarm.

Warner breathed hard and gripped fistfuls of his hair. "Will you shut that kid up?"

"He's a kid," Steve sneered, lisping from an inflating lip. "He's scared, of course he's going to cry. What do you expect?"

"Just make him shut up before I lose my cool."

"Let him out of here and you won't have to listen to him any more."

Warner roared and whipped out his gun, aiming it past Steve. "I won't have to listen to him any more if I just shoot him."

"No!" cried Grace, hugging her brother closer.

Steve had trained on hostage negotiations, knew all the tactics to calm a dangerous man with nothing to lose. Seeing a loaded gun pointed at Danny's kids made all that knowledge vanish. His anger was instantly replaced with alarm, the sense of urgency so strong he was nearly frantic. He broke into a nervous sweat and hopped to his feet, positioning himself between the gun and the kids.

"No, please, Jack," he stammered over Charlie's cries. "Jack, listen. I can still help you, okay? We can look into the missing guns. I can help you find them." He held up his hands as a sign of surrender. "I'll do whatever you want, Jack, whatever you need. But you can't hurt the kids. I know you're not the kind of person who would do that. You can't hurt them. Please."

Warner's face was flushed with impatience. Keeping the gun raised, he turned his head to the stairwell. "Ricci! Get down here, now!"

Almost instantly, the basement door opened on it's squeaking hinges. The man with the scar emerged, stomping heavily down the stairs with a pistol in his grip. He looked to Warner, then to Steve, and finally to the wailing child in the corner.

Warner gestured with his gun. "Get that kid out of here."

Steve's heart skipped a beat. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to refrain from lunging forward and tackling Warner to the ground. "Jack, no, you don't have to do this—"

"Ricci, get that damn kid out of here!"

"What am I supposed to do with him?"

"Jack, please, please, I'm begging you—"

"I don't care, just make him shut up before I shoot!"

The commotion fogged Steve's already dizzy mind. Warner reached out and pushed Steve to the floor, where he landed hard on his knees. He turned just in time to see Ricci pry Charlie away from Grace's protective embrace.

"No, stop!" Grace pleaded. She looked desperately to Steve. "Uncle Steve, make them stop! Please!"

Charlie fought back, writhing and kicking and screaming, his face red and wet. Ricci clamped his arms around the boy's small body and lifted him effortlessly.

"Hey! Stop!" Steve made an instinctive grab for the man, but Warner blocked him with a swift kick to the ribs. With a gasp, Steve once gain found himself splayed across the floor, black dots invading his vision. "No, no, no," he murmured around wheezes. "Charlie!"

Ricci marched up the stairs and flung open the door. Charlie clawed for the door frame, screaming for his uncle and sister, but was ripped away and pulled into the darkness. His cries were muffled from upstairs.

Steve rolled onto his back. Warner stared down at him, eyes wild.

"You son of a bitch," Steve growled, chest heaving. "Don't you dare hurt him. Do you understand me? I will kill every single one of you if you touch him. I will kill _all of you_."

Warner ignored Steve's threat. He rubbed at his temples and began pacing again, clearly agitated. Charlie's screams still echoed from upstairs, and behind him, Steve heard soft sniffles from Grace. He eyed Warner's pistol. Maybe he could do it. He shuddered at the thought of shooting a man in front of Grace, but Charlie was in danger. He didn't have a choice.

Steve readied himself to make the grab. His jaw ached from the punch, his rib cage felt bruised and damaged, and every blink made the room tilt.

Damn it, he couldn't do it.

Woozy and swallowing down nausea, Steve collapsed forward.

"I need to think," Warner muttered, starting for the stairs. "You _will_ get my guns back for me, McGarrett, so don't go anywhere."

Without so much as a glance his way, Warner stalked upstairs. As the padlock clicked into place, Steve realized that Charlie's sobs could no longer be heard.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Ahhh I'm so sorry this update took so long! I'm getting married in May, so I've been really busy with wedding stuff. Sorry this chapter isn't the most exciting, but the next one will have lots of action. For those who left a review, thank you so much! Your kind words are my inspiration to write :) Also, ignore any typos...  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

"Are you gonna be sick?"

Steve's eyes fluttered open. Sweat made his shirt cling to his skin and stung the wound on his temple. He'd gagged a few times, the dizziness becoming enough to dent his iron stomach. Sleep threatened to take him, but he had to fight it, had to stay on guard in case Warner or—what was the other guy? Ricci?—came back.

Grace pushed herself up, where she'd been laying her head on his lap. Her eyes were bloodshot from previous tears. "Uncle Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't look good."

Steve sensed the concern in her voice and forced a smirk. "I'm fine. Just a little tired. It's past my bedtime, you know."

"You can go to sleep if you want."

"No can do," replied Steve, shaking his head. Bad idea—the world seemed to spin like a tilt-o-whirl, forcing him to squeeze his eyes closed again.

"Why?"

"I gotta stay awake. Gotta make sure you're safe."

"I can wake you up when I hear those guys coming."

"Too risky."

Grace frowned, and they fell into silence.

Steve guessed dawn was approaching. They'd been in the basement for hours, straining their ears for any indication that Charlie was upstairs. There was no way some gun dealer would hurt a kid. No way. Charlie had to be okay. He was okay, he was okay, he was okay. Steve refused to believe anything else, because if he did, he'd certainly go insane before anyone could rescue them.

What was he going to do? Even if Steve managed a way to escape with Grace, he couldn't—he _wouldn't—_ leave Charlie behind. Escaping this damned place was out of the question until he had both kids. It was possible Charlie had been hidden away in another room upstairs, or taken to one of the sheds outside, or maybe into the jungle where he was...

No, no, no. C'mon, McGarrett, the kid was fine. He was. Warner wouldn't shoot a kid. Right?

Something pricked at his eyes. Sweat, probably. He brought up his bound hands and swiped them across his brow, clearing the wetness away. His vision was still blurred, but it was just sweat, because Charlie was fine, and Grace was fine, and there's no way Warner could hurt a five-year-old little boy.

"Uncle Steve," said Grace. He didn't look at her. "I really think you need to take a nap. You won't be able to fight the bad guys if you're tired."

Maybe she was right. But what if the men came, and he couldn't wake up in time? What if they hurt Grace because he was too weak to keep his freaking eyes open? Again, he attempted to clear the sting of sweat out of his eyes, but there was none.

"You can lay on my lap if you want," Grace offered. "I promise I'll wake you up if I even hear a footstep, okay?"

Steve figured he didn't have much of a choice. If he didn't rest away the nausea, he'd be useless to Grace when she needed him, just like he'd been useless to Charlie. He grunted out an "Okay," and laid on his side, where Grace patted his head gently.

Already, he felt slightly more at ease. Feeling her there, knowing she couldn't move without disturbing him, made him relax. He took one last look at the blurry room, and shut his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Gracie," Steve murmured, unconsciousness pulling him under. "I'm so sorry."

Grace stroked his hair, and after only a couple minutes, Steve was asleep.

* * *

Danny downed his fourth cup of coffee.

The caffeine worsened his anxiety, but at least he was awake. His nerves were shot, and his temper was frayed. He sat in Steve's office, twirling a pen in his fingers and tapping his foot underneath the desk. His partner's phone records and emails hadn't shown anything unusual, as Danny had expected. No hits on the BOLO or the Amber Alert, either. CSU had finished processing Steve's house and sent the evidence to the lab, where techs were called in immediately to begin testing. Getting a full DNA profile could take days, but Danny was ready to move on a partial. Steve and the kids had been missing for almost ten hours. There simply wasn't time.

Danny let the pen drop. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing the tired sting away. He thought of Rachel. She'd been a mess. Hysterical. Although he still hadn't forgiven her for keeping Charlie from him, she was still the mother of his children, and he'd held her firmly in his arms as she sobbed and screamed. Eventually, he was able to convince her to stay home with a protective detail in case of a ransom call. In his heart, he knew the phone would never ring. But Rachel didn't need to know that.

Danny glanced up at movement through the office windows. Lou bustled by, his eyes underlined with dark circles. He seemed to have an endless supply of coffee for the team, bringing in a refill whenever someone ran dry. He met Chin at the table-top computer in the center of HQ, who'd been painstakingly searching through traffic cameras to locate the mysterious vehicles spotted by Steve's neighbor. Within the first fifteen minutes of arriving at HQ, Chin was able to locate the two SUVs. He followed the vehicles for hours, accessing camera after camera, until they disappeared on the highway. Worst of all, the bastards had removed the license plates.

"Hey."

Danny looked up. Kono stood in the doorway, wearing the same tank-top and jeans from yesterday. She looked exhausted, but still managed a slight lift of her lips. "How are you holding up?"

Danny couldn't even answer. Frissons of worry shook him every time he remembered his children weren't at home, tucked away in their beds. The only thing that could steady his quivery hands was knowing the kids were with Steve. Danny was confident that Steve would do everything in his power to protect Grace and Charlie, but as he pondered more and more, seeds of doubt planted themselves in his head. If Steve was injured, if Steve wasn't compliant—that stubborn son of a bitch hated being told what to do—or if Steve had been separated from the kids, he wouldn't be able to ensure their safety.

And what would these people do when they got what they wanted?

Danny knew the answer, and it made him nauseous.

"Danny?" Kono asked again. She stepped into the room, cautiously. He knew she meant well, but he didn't want to talk about himself.

Danny managed a shake of his head, then stared at the keyboard.

What else was there to do? They had nothing. Kono had spent the night refreshing her computer, watching for updates on the alerts. She called the lab to get progress reports, contacted HPD for information on anything new they may have discovered, and even placed McGarrett on a no-fly list in case someone tried to take him off the island.

A gentle hand fell upon his shoulder. "We're going to find them, Danny. We're lucky the kids are with Steve. He isn't going to let anything happen to them. You know that."

Danny pulled in a long breath and blew it out slowly, attempting to slow his pulse. "It's been ten hours," he said, voice hoarse with emotion. He knew he didn't have to say anything else, because Kono understood the urgency of every passing minute.

Suddenly, the office door flung open.

"Danny," called Chin. "We've got something."

He didn't even remember his feet carrying him to the surface computer. He was vaguely aware of Kono beside him, keeping a light hand on his back in case his shivering knees betrayed him.

Chin tapped away at the computer. "The lab got a hit on the blood," he said, not looking up.

Danny's stomach lurched. "Is—is it...?" He swallowed. "Whose is it?"

"You can relax. It's not Steve or the kids."

Danny nearly collapsed with relief. He gripped the edge of the table as Chin swiped up, bringing up a mugshot of a man—thirty-four years old, dark hair, and a scar cutting across one cheek.

"His name is Travis Ricci," said Chin, crossing his arms over his chest. "Convicted felon, spent eight months in Halawa a few years back for drug possession."

Danny studied the man's rap sheet. Drug possession, assault, a handful of speeding violations. Could any of those charges escalate to kidnapping? He was puzzled. The guy certainly didn't look familiar.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Danny asked to one one in particular.

"Could he be someone McGarrett helped put away?" suggested Lou.

"I definitely don't recognize him," said Chin. "Or the scar."

Kono squinted at the screen. "Look, at the bottom. It says he has ties to the High Aces."

"The High Aces?" Danny echoed. "I thought those punks were more into weapon trafficking, not drugs."

He waited as Chin began a search on other known gang members. Only one man appeared—a thirty-eight-year-old named Jack Warner. The man had spent six years in prison, having been released in 2013. Although he looked like he came from the mainland, there was a local address listed.

"Okay," said Danny, "I don't know what these guys want with Steve, but Travis Ricci left his blood all over the floor, so I'm thinking we need to pay him a visit. Chin, you're with me. Kono, Lou—get over to Warner's place and bring him in."

Chin and Kono nodded in agreement and hurried off to gather their tactical gear. Danny stared to follow, but Lou stopped him.

"You think we ought to call backup?" he asked. "I can get SWAT here in twenty minutes."

"No," said Danny. "I'm not wasting any more time. And if I find the son of a bitch, I don't want any extra witnesses to what I'm going to do to him." He brushed past the former SWAT captain, who followed on his heels. For the first time since the whole ordeal began, Danny felt a flutter of hope.

* * *

It felt strange to have Chin riding beside him.

Out of habit, Danny had approached the passenger side of his own vehicle before remembering Steve wasn't there to claim the wheel. As least McGarrett would be proud of his driving; Danny drifted around corners, blew through red lights, and popped curbs to get around the slow morning traffic.

Chin secured the role of navigator, guiding Danny to Travis Ricci's home in Pearl City, while Kono and Lou headed the opposite direction to Manoa, a residential neighborhood housing the last known address of Jack Warner. Although it was only theorized that Warner was involved—he had ties to the gang, after all, and one puny gang banger couldn't best Steve McGarrett—Danny decided a mere theory was good enough to warrant a visit.

Danny needed to be the one to kick in Ricci's door, and Chin was quick to volunteer to be his back-up. DNA proved Ricci had been in Steve's house. He'd _bled_ in Steve's house. Danny had stared at the man's mugshot until the face was branded into his memory forever.

He couldn't get there fast enough. The twenty minute drive to Pearl City took him barely ten, but even that was too long. So much could happen in ten minutes. They'd already wasted the entire night twiddling their thumbs, waiting for a lead or a tip or a hit on the BOLO, but there hadn't been any news, and Danny didn't know what was worse in this situation—hearing something, or hearing nothing at all.

Because something should have happened by now, right? A phone call. A ransom. Some sort of crime or crazy event in the news that Steve was forced to commit at the hands of his captors. The fact that Steve was silent frightened Danny even more. Ten hours was a long time to deal with Steve and two kids. Something must have happened. Something went wrong. Steve refused to do what the men said and got everyone killed. Maybe they tried to escape, and were gunned down before they made it out the door. Maybe the Aces had been after information, Steve had given it to them, and now he and the kids weren't needed anymore—

"Danny!"  
Chin's cry lifted Danny from the dark fog that had choked him. In the nick of time, he comprehended that he was about to rear-end a mini van, and yanked the wheel to the left. He felt the back end of the Camaro fishtail and nearly slide into the grassy median. Chin steadied himself with one hand on the dash as a chorus of horns sounded behind them.

Danny cursed. "Do these idiots not know how to pull over? Hello, I have my lights on! Get the hell off the road, soccer mom!"

"Easy, Danny," said Chin, carefully. "We can't get there if we're dead."

Danny gritted his teeth. He merged around a truck and pulled off the highway. Just a few more blocks. "Okay, well, I don't exactly have time to be stuck in traffic right now."

Chin checked the map on his phone. "Next left," he said. He turned back to his friend. "Look, Danny, I know what you're feeling. When Sara was taken, I was out of my mind. In fact, when I ran out of my own birthday party, I couldn't think of anything other than getting on the first plane to Mexico and getting her back. It was pretty reckless, and I would have done it had Steve not followed me and convinced me to stop and take a breath."

Danny's hands, slick with sweat, glided across the wheel as he turned onto the next street. "Look, Chin, you know I love you, buddy, but I really don't think you know how I'm feeling at all." From the corner of his eye, he saw Chin look over at him, eyebrows raised. "I mean, I know you love Sara like your own. I get that, I do. But you need to understand..." He paused, swallowing down a lump of emotion in his throat. "You have to understand... my _entire life_ has been taken from me right now. My kids—my beautiful, innocent kids are gone, and my partner, my best friend..." His voice cracked.

Chin spoke softly, not a hint of hurt or dismay in his voice. "You're right. You have more to lose right now than I ever have." He pointed to the right, and Danny took the final turn onto Ricci's street. "But you're wrong about one thing, Danny. You have me, you have Kono, Lou, and even Jerry. We might not count for much, but we're apart of your life, too. We're _ohana_."

He tried to nod, tried to say 'I know', or 'thank you', but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His throat ached. If he attempted to speak, he was afraid he'd lose it. That couldn't happen. Not now.

"The best thing we can do right now is keep our heads," said Chin. He tucked his phone safely away in his pocket and tugged at the strap of his tac vest, securing it in place. He readied his hand on the door handle, preparing to exit the vehicle as Danny screeched to a stop at the curb.

There was nothing sinister about Ricci's house, nothing to suggest there could be two young kids trapped inside. The neighborhood was upper-middle class, all bi-level homes with green lawns and colorful flowers lining the walkways. It wasn't where he expected to find a gang member with prison time under his belt.

Danny climbed from the car before he'd even pulled the keys from the ignition. His hands shook as he tugged on his tac gloves. He'd need those gloves today if he wanted a solid grip on his gun. There, up those wooden front steps, behind that new white door, he could find his kids. He could find Steve. Would they be tied up, stuffed away in a dark closet or in the garage? Would they be huddled on the living room couch, staring at the barrel of a gun? Or would he walk into a bloody mess, the three people he cared about most in the world lying in pieces on the floor?

Chin said something to him, but Danny's thudding ears only captured muffled cadences of his friend's voice. He went rigid, focused, creeping up the lawn with his gun raised. The curtains were drawn, making it impossible to see into the house. His heart was so high in his chest he could taste it.

He sensed Chin moving behind him. The proper protocol would be to knock, to identify themselves as officers and ask to come inside. Steve, on the other hand, would take full advantage of Five-0's immunity and kick the door in without a second thought.

If Danny was ever going to act like Steve, now was the time.

He tried the door, found it locked, and took a step back. He sucked in a deep breath, focused every ounce of anger, every bit of worry and fear and uncertainty festering in his body, and let it out with one powerful kick.

The door flew open.

Pain reverberated up his leg, but he shook it off. He stormed into the house, crunching over splinters of cracked wood. Danny took a left and headed into the living room, knowing Chin would take the right.

"Five-0!" Danny called, hearing the edge in his own voice. He prayed his choice of forgoing backup wasn't a mistake.

The living room was furnished sparsely. Dust had settled across a glass coffee table. There weren't any pictures on the walls, or any decor aside from empty beer bottles stacked on the end tables. Footsteps behind him made him whip around, but it was only Chin, signaling that he was heading towards the kitchen.

That left Danny with the hall and bedrooms. He moved steadily, his focus an unwavering plane. To the right was the bathroom, which he found clear. There was no water pooled in the bathtub from a morning shower, no left-over soap scum, no toothbrush by the sink. His heart sank.

"Grace?" he called as he entered the bedroom. "Charlie?"

Despite not having fully cleared the room, Danny let his gun fall slowly to his side. He stopped. Listened. Waited to hear the quiet sniffling on his son, or the squeaky sobs his daughter made as she cried. He listened for Steve, expected to hear a groan as he rolled out from some hiding place wondering what the hell took Danny so long.

"The kitchen's clear," informed Chin, appearing from behind. His voice was low, cautious. "It doesn't look like anyone's been home in a while."

Danny noted the unmade bed, the empty closet. Travis Ricci either didn't spend a lot of time in his own home, or was content with minimalism. Judging from the bottles in the living room, he assumed the former.

The trip had been useless. There wasn't a thing inside that suggested Ricci was in possession of McGarrett or the kids. Nothing gave a clue as to why Steve was taken. Any hope Danny had left of finding his kids alive slowly deflated out of him like a balloon. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, poking out the top of his heavy vest, trying to breathe, trying to force oxygen back into his lungs. He placed his gloved hand against the wall to steady himself.

He remembered when Grace had been taken from him the first time, the anger he felt. He was livid, thinking there was no one alive on earth that was more deserving of his hatred than the bastard who'd snatched her. Now, lamenting his daughter, his son, his friend, the anger wasn't as prominent as the fear or the guilt.

Grace had survived a kidnapping once before. Maybe this time she wouldn't be as lucky.

"Danny..." Chin murmured. His voice trailed off, like he wanted to say more, but couldn't offer assurances about something he didn't believe himself.

The buzzing of Danny's cell phone forced some air to catch in his throat. He fumbled in his pocket with shaking fingers and saw Kono's name on the screen.

He answered breathlessly. "Tell me you have something."

"No sign of the kids or Steve at Jack Warner's place," she replied. "But there's something you need to see."

* * *

"Uncle Steve, wake up!"

The fierce whisper from Grace ripped Steve away from a nightmare. He shot upright, momentarily disoriented as he struggled to comprehend his surroundings. The restraints on his wrists seemed tighter than ever.

"What?" he asked, matching her whisper. "What is it, sweetie?"

He did a quick visual of the room, finding it still empty, aside from the sickly yellow light. He was painfully reminded of Charlie's absence. How long had Steve been asleep? A couple hours? What had been done to Charlie during that time?

"I hear something," said Grace. She sat rigidly, back against the wall, listening. "Footsteps, I think."

Steve listened, too. His ears rang and popped from sitting up so quickly, and his throat felt like sandpaper. He hoped wherever Charlie was, if he was alive, his captors provided him with water and food.

At least Steve felt more like himself. His head was clearer, though an ache still lingered on his skull. The nausea was gone, as well as the dizziness. He was certain he'd be able to fight when the time presented itself.

Finally, he heard the footsteps. Boots thudded on the linoleum in the kitchen above. He shared a glance with Grace, who was wide-eyed with fear.

The lock on the door rattled. Steve wiped sweat from his face with the crook of his arm and braced himself. As expected, Jack Warner flung the door open.

"Commander McGarrett!" he greeted, cheerfully. "I finally figured out how you can help me!"

Steve didn't like that sound of that. He pressed himself closer to Grace, who kept her head down, trying to remain unnoticed.

"Great," said Steve. "Tell me what it is so we can get this over with."

Warner smiled, a big, toothy grin. "Hang on, hang on. There's something you need to know first."

"I'm listening."

Warner paced the floor in front of him. "Your boy? The one who was crying?"

Steve's heart skipped a beat. "Charlie."

"Yeah, Charlie. We have him, and he's fine. He'll stay that way as long as you cooperate and do everything as instructed. If you try anything, he will be harmed. Do you understand?"

Grace whimpered.

The way Warner spoke made the hairs on Steve's arms stand up straight. His threatening demeanor from earlier was gone, replaced with what sounded like a father chiding his son. Warner was perhaps more dangerous and unpredictable than Steve thought.

"I understand, Jack," said Steve, keeping his tone firm. "Now tell me your plan."

Warner smiled again, pleased with himself. He approached Steve and knelt before him. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and snapped it open, the click making Grace jump.

Steve stiffened, ready to knock the knife from his hands. To his surprise, Jack took a hold of Steve's arm and cut the zip-ties away. His wrists tingled as blood rushed back to them.

"The girl stays here," said Warner, "but you're coming with me."

Steve didn't move. "Where?"

Warner folded the knife and put it away. He stood, motioning Steve to follow. "You're going to bring Samuel Ulani to me."

Steve looked to Grace, dreading leaving her alone. She was strong, she would be okay by herself, but what if one of the other men came downstairs? What would they do to her?

He didn't have a choice. He'd have to listen to everything Warner said, follow his every order if he wanted to keep the kids safe. There was just one problem, one thing that made Steve doubt whatever plan Warner conspired would go smoothly.

Samuel Ulani was in prison.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for the continued support, everyone! It's all the reviews and faves that give me motivation to write! Enjoy the next chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

"I'm not going to stand here all day, McGarrett."

"I know, I know. Just a few minutes is all I'm asking." Steve would have been unabashed to drop to his knees and beg if it meant he'd be allowed a moment to comfort Grace. "Please, Jack."

Warner snorted and waved his hand dismissively. He'd folded the switchblade back into his pocket and stood with his pistol hanging lackadaisically in his grip. He sighed, reminiscent of a pouting toddler, and plopped onto the bottom step of the wooden staircase.

Steve took full advantage of the rare glimmer of empathy. Fearing the man would change his mind, Steve turned quickly to Grace and pulled her close. He wrapped his arms tightly around her trembling frame and exhaled a breath of relief. Warner's sudden mood change was concerning, but Steve was thankful for the side of the man willing to sanction him time for a goodbye.

Hugging and soothing the fears of the kids had been difficult with limited use of his hands. Having the zip-ties removed left deep, angry rings pressed into his skin that tingled and burned. But as he held Grace, this time as tight as he wanted to, the pain vanished.

"Are you coming back?" Grace whispered. Hot tears fell silently down her face and smudged against Steve's cheek.

Steve kept her firmly in his embrace for a minute before he replied. A pang of remorse shook his heart as he placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm's length.

"Everything is going to be okay. You hear me? We'll be fine." His fatherly hand moved to the back of her head and he leaned forward, blinking away a sudden blur in his vision as he kissed her crown. "I'll be back soon, Grace, I promise. You'll be by yourself for a while but you'll be fine, I have no doubt. Understand? You're the strongest, bravest girl I know. I'm so proud of you."

A small sob burst from her mouth. She averted her eyes, cheeks burning red and shining wetly.

"You'll be fine, baby, I promise," Steve reassured, careful to keep his voice steady. "Just stay quiet, do what they say, and think of how close your dad is to finding us by now."

His own words incited a whole new fear: Danny.

As if Steve didn't have enough to worry about already, he remembered his partner and the lines he was willing to cross to save his daughter from her abductee years earlier. Now, not only was Grace gone _again_ , but Charlie was, too. He could hardly imagine the rage, the guilt, and the panic that overrode Danny's emotions, as well as the physical afflictions accompanying them: the nausea, the rapid pulse, the fatigue. Wherever Danny was, whatever lead he was following, Steve knew he was a mess. Kono, Lou, and Chin Ho would keep their eyes on him, sure, but Danny would ultimately do anything necessary to get Steve and his kids back—a truth that concerned him just as much as getting the hell out of this place.

And where the hell _was_ Danny, anyway? Steve had expected Five-0 to have found them by now, and the fact that an entire night had passed made Steve wonder if the team had any leads at all. They were running out of time. If, somehow, Jack Warner's convoluted plan succeeded and Ulani was brought back to the house, Steve and the kids wouldn't be needed anymore. Warner promised he'd let the kids go, but Steve knew it was a lie. They'd seen his face, knew his name and voice. Witnesses couldn't be spared.

Grace finally looked up. She held out her bound hands, and Steve clasped them in his own. "I'm not worried about being alone," she said. "I'm worried about you. They took Charlie, and now they're going to take you too. What if you get hurt? What if you don't come back?"

Steve's eyes didn't leave hers as Warner stood from his spot on the stairs. "Alright, that's enough," he muttered. "We've got work to do, McGarrett."

Steve yanked Grace forward one last time and hugged her fiercely. He pressed his mouth against her ear, speaking softly so Warner couldn't hear. "I'm going to get us out of here."

Warner's rough hand seized Steve's shoulder and peeled him away. Steve forced himself to cooperate. He'd mustered enough strength to be submissive, to resign himself for the sake of the kids, but that strength was waning. He knew the consequences of disobeying Jack's orders was something he couldn't risk, but having to be under Warner's control was torturous.

"Let's go," Warner said. He gestured to the stairs with his gun, prompting Steve to lead the way. Steve obeyed, climbing the steps slowly, Warner's gun inches from his back. It would be so easy to whip around and take the pistol. _So easy_. No one ever saw it coming, and Steve was _fast_. But how many men were upstairs? If Charlie was alive—and he _was_ alive, he had to be alive—would Steve be able to find him?

On the final step, Steve paused. The lone light that hung over the basement ceiling flickered. He peered down at Grace, the quick cuts from light to dark making the tears on her face sparkle like gems. He wanted to offer one last smile, one more smirk to assure her he would be fine, but _god damn it_ he couldn't make himself do it.

Something nagging inside him warned this was the last time he'd see Grace in that room.

"Move," Warner barked. A hard shove to the back made Steve break away from Grace's gaze.

He stumbled up the last step and found himself in the dirty kitchen of the house, with Ricci and the two other men seated around a rickety table. The men wore normal street clothes, and all had guns sitting on their hips. They looked like a rough bunch, but nothing about them screamed, 'I have a child tied up in my basement.'

Jack closed the basement door and snapped a small padlock into place. Steve studied the way the other men acted, how they waited expectantly for their leader to speak and address the group. Warner was definitely the one in charge.

"Commander McGarrett has decided to help us find our guns," said Warner. He holstered his gun and walked around Steve to stand by the men at the table.

One man, the Hispanic who'd led Steve from the car to his prison, snorted. "Not like he had much of a choice."

Steve didn't say anything. His gaze traveled around the room, searching for any sign of Charlie. A desperate part of him hoped to see the little boy huddling in the corner, or restrained in the adjacent living room. The house remained as it was so many hours ago when he'd first arrived; trash littering the dusty floors, paint curling off the walls, the smell of damp wood decaying from neglect. He wondered if the gang were squatters, or if one of the High Aces had the place in their name. The house was definitely abandoned, and had been for some time.

"Since we're going to be working so closely together, I figure we'd better introduce ourselves," said Warner, clapping his hands together. The new, chipper personality put Steve on edge. During their first encounter, Warner came off as intimidating and cold—nearly emotionless.

"You've already met Trav," said Warner, gesturing to Ricci. "Quentin here will be our driver today, and Kimo will stay here in case you misbehave."

Steve knew what he meant. He glared at the fourth man, seething at the thought of Kimo hurting a child.

But Kimo hadn't been the one to take Charlie. Steve remembered Warner getting frustrated in the basement, and how he'd called for Ricci—first name Travis?—to come down and take the crying boy away. He wasn't sure which man he hated more.

"So, what's the plan?" asked Steve. He wondered if his voice was loud enough to carry downstairs. He didn't want Grace to hear anything. "Ulani's rotting away in Halawa, and, no offense, but you guys don't seem smart enough to pull off a break-out."

Warner grinned widely, showing off straight white teeth. "Smart enough or not, we don't have time for anything elaborate. I want my guns, and I want off this island."

"And you think I can help with this?"

"Of course you can!" Warner exclaimed. Man, this guy was a freak. "You're Five-0. The governor's task force. Ex-Navy SEAL. You're Steve- _freaking_ -McGarrett! You can help us, and you _will_ help us, because if you don't, your kids will each get a bullet between their eyes."

Steve set his jaw. His fists clenched at his sides, itching for contact. "I'm not doing anything until I know Charlie is alive."

"He's alive. You can take my word for it."

Steve wavered on his feet as he prevented himself from lunging forward at Warner and wrapping his hands around the man's neck. Ricci shot up from his chair, hand on his gun, alerted from Steve's movement. Steve regained his balance and inhaled slowly. He nodded at the man, and Ricci slowly sat back down. He took pleasure in seeing the stiff way Ricci moved his arm, still sore and bandaged from Steve's bullet.

"Jack," Steve started, hoping to tap into the sympathetic side of the man, "you have to give me something. If he's alive, just let me see him. Let me talk to him. I won't be able to focus on what I'm doing until I know he's okay."

Warner shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm sure you'll find yourself able to focus, McGarrett. The same thing that happened to the boy will happen to that girl in the basement if you can't pull it together."

Oh, god. What the hell did that _mean_? Steve quivered with rage. His chest burned, and every muscle was taught and aching. It had been a long time since he'd felt an anger so great it threatened to consume him. He pictured a black cloud settling over his head, descending like a wicked maw with poison teeth. He thirsted for Warner's blood on his fists. He imagined himself punching out that unsettling smile, watching Warner fall to the ground choking on broken teeth.

"Let's just get this over with," Steve muttered.

"Excellent," said Warner. "Kimo, keep your phone close. If McGarrett tries anything I'll need to call you right away."

Steve dropped his voice and glared at Kimo, an icy stare cold enough to make the man shiver. "If you touch the kids, I will not rest until I can personally watch your brains spill out onto the floor."

Kimo laughed. "Yeah, good luck with that."

"I don't like that attitude, Commander," Jack warned. "You'd better not act that way at Halawa."

Steve didn't say anything else in fear of triggering Jack's nasty side. He stayed quiet as Warner led the way out of the house, Ricci and Quentin following closely.

The morning sun was bright and stung his eyes. The air was thick already, a sign of another sweltering day. Judging by the sky, Steve figured it was between six and eight AM. A whole night had been spent in the dank basement, and a whole night had passed without Charlie. His head began to throb at the temple, right beneath the swollen lump.

As Steve was led to the black SUV in the driveway, he narrowed his eyes and scanned the yard for any indication of his partner's son. He paid close attention to the grass and dirt around the shed, searching for any drag marks or missing chunks of lawn that suggested a struggle. Morbidly, he also scouted the yard for upturned earth or muddy shovels, because although he didn't want to believe it, there was a possibility that...

No.

He couldn't go there.

Steve shoved the thought away and climbed into the passenger seat of the vehicle. As Warner said, Quentin took the wheel while the two other men hopped in the back. It both disgusted and infuriated Steve how many opportunities he'd had to get the upper hand on his captors, and how many times he'd been forced to hold back.

Quentin turned the car around and started down the gravel road leading away from the property. A surprisingly deep ditch separated the road from thick copses of leafy brush and tall trees drooping with twisting vines. Steve drank in every detail, keeping his head still and eyes moving so it wasn't obvious he was searching for a hint to his location.

It was at least a five mile drive to a paved road. Finally, the trees ended and Steve was greeted with civilization. Excitement pounded in his heart. Surely Danny had put a BOLO on the vehicles, and Warner was dumb enough to make Steve sit in the front. There was a good chance someone would recognize him and call the police.

Steve studied the area as Quentin waited to turn onto the highway. To his surprise, a lone bar stood just ahead. A giant, laughably gaudy sign sat on the roof, its neon letters blinking _Margaritas!_ in alternating pink and green. Steve had seen that sign before.

Quentin took a left, and after a mile or so the ocean came into view to the north, which confirmed Steve's suspicions: they were near Sunset Beach, forty miles from Honolulu.

"McGarrett," said Warner, interrupting Steve's thoughts.

Steve didn't remove his eyes from the window, but grunted in response.

"What's going to happen today should be very simple. You're going to tell the staff that Ulani will be able to assist you in finding the two missing kids, and that he needs to be released into Five-0's custody."

Steve rolled his eyes. "My face is going to be plastered all over the news too, Jack."

"You'll have to think of something," Ricci said from the backseat, causing Quentin to smirk. "You know what'll happen if you screw this up."

"Okay, you know what?" Steve rotated around in his seat, sending a fiery glare at Ricci and an unamused Warner. "Do me a favor, okay? Do not mention the kids again. I'm sick of hearing what you'll do to them if I don't cooperate. I get it, okay? Just shut the hell up so we can get this over with."

The driver raised his eyebrows and glanced in the rear-view to get a look at Warner and Ricci's reactions. Steve turned back to the window, ignoring them all. So much commotion, so much pain, all for some stupid guns.

According to the clock on the dash, it was almost eight AM when Quentin pulled into the visitors' section of Halawa's parking lot. The drive allowed Steve to mentally prepare himself for what had to be the best acting performance of his life. He knew most of the guards, so he was sure he could get away with forgoing his ID and badge, but would anyone be suspicious? He'd made up a good cover story, and if he put some urgency in his voice, he could convince the guards to move fast and bypass some otherwise necessary protocol.

For the kids' safety, he needed to get Samuel Ulani into the car. Once that miracle happened...

He had no plan.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen," Warner instructed. He removed the gun from his belt and passed it to Ricci. "McGarrett and I will go inside to get Ulani. Quentin, go park by the release gates so you're ready to meet us there when he's out. Trav, buddy, you're the muscle. Once Ulani is inside I want him hooded and tied. Understand?"

All the men nodded in agreement, and Warner grinned with satisfaction.

"Alright, then, McGarrett," said Warner, reaching forward to clap Steve on the shoulder. "Are you ready?"

* * *

Danny entered Jack Warner's house and immediately felt sick.

He was not a superstitious man. He didn't believe in curses, hexes, voodoos, bad luck or anything of the sort. But Danny did believe in intuition. And right now, his gut was telling him this man was bad news. Negative vibes seemed to radiate through the small home, a heavy, almost static energy clinging to every oxygen particle in the air. His body felt weighed with trepidation.

This was where they would find answers. This was where they needed to be.

The house had an open floor plan and a sliding door that led to a tiny, neglected backyard. In contrast to Ricci's, the house was lived-in and cluttered. Huge stacks of folders stuffed with papers, receipts, newspaper clippings and the like towered over the kitchen table. Identical piles sat on every chair. A card table was set up on the living room, with more papers spread across the surface. From where he stood, Danny could see red circles and yellow streaks of highlighter over some of the pages.

"What the hell is all this?" he said.

"Whatever it is, it looks like Jack's been busy," noted Chin, heading for a better look at the files on the table.

Kono and Lou stepped in from the hall merging off the living room.

"Hey," Kono greeted, getting straight to the point. "There's seven rifles in his bedroom and another twelve guns in the garage."

"And he's got bags of cash stashed all over," said Lou, "which confirms what Kono and I have been thinking."

"Which is?" asked Danny.

"That Warner's still in business."

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. The thick air was making him irritable, and he wanted out of the house as fast as possible. "Elaborate, please. What did you find in all this stuff?"

The team followed Kono to the table set up in the living room. She picked up a newspaper clipping dated a few months back and held it out to Danny.

"From the looks of it, Warner was really interested in this story. Remember Samuel Ulani?"

Danny took the article, with featured a mugshot of the man in question. "Yeah, I remember. We busted him with all those stolen guns."

"Right," said Kono. "Warner seems to have every article published about Ulani and his guns. He was following the case very closely."

Lou crossed his arms. "Some of the files on the kitchen table had personal records of Ulani; address, the place of his day job, names of people he'd recently sold to..."

"Why have all that extra info?" Chin wondered aloud. "Why would Warner want names of previous buyers of Ulani's guns?"

Danny stared down at the black-and-white photo of the criminal. It had been such a simple case, so insignificant. Nothing about Ulani or his guns had stuck with Danny over the months. In fact, today was the first time he'd thought about it since.

Why hadn't his intuition kicked in then? Why didn't the sense of foreboding hit him like it did now, standing in Warner's house?

"He's looking for something," Danny concluded. He tossed the article back onto the table, cursing under his breath. "Ulani had a gun that Warner needs back, and since we were the ones to take him down, Warner must figure Steve knows something about it. The kids are leverage."

"Seems like a lot of work for a gun," muttered Chin, shaking his head.

"Well, whatever the reason, Warner was definitely fixed on Ulani," Lou said. "I say we head over to Halawa and pay him a visit."

"Yes," Danny said. "Lou, you're with me. Chin, Kono, you stay here and keep going through these files. Get HPD down here to help process."

"Got it," replied Chin.

Without another word, Danny turned and headed out the door, Lou behind. He sucked in a breath of fresh air. The impending sense of dread didn't dissipate as he left the house. In fact, it was stronger than ever.

* * *

Steve was both surprised and pleased that Jack wasn't stupid enough to bring a gun inside the building.

The two men made it past the metal detectors with ease and approached the security desk at Oahu's notorious prison. Warner stuck close to Steve's side, gauging his every move. Every step closer to the desk made Steve's feet feel heavier and heavier, as if he was trudging through quicksand and sinking deeper into the earth.

He'd never before felt such helplessness, and he was _pissed_. Some lowly gang banger shouldn't be telling him what to do. Some worthless punk like Jack Warner shouldn't be threatening him and the kids. Some detestable criminal shouldn't be in control the situation.

He was completely under their control. One mistake, and Charlie and Grace would face the consequences. One wrong move, and Steve wouldn't be able to reunite Danny with his kids.

"Commander McGarrett?"

Steve knew the guard at the desk from previous trips to the prison. Franklin did a double-take and furrowed his brow, scrutinizing Steve up and down. He was a nice guy, probably close to retirement, and definitely not someone Steve ever imagined he'd lie to.

"Easy, Frank," said Steve, holding up a hand. He placed both palms flat on the desk, flashing Franklin his classic grin. "Everything's fine. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Franklin studied Warner, who smiled politely, but said nothing. Thoroughly confused, Franklin shook his head. "Jesus, McGarrett. What the hell is going on? You're all over the news. They say you're missing."

A security camera hung above the desk, and Steve chanced a quick glance straight into the lens. Hoping Warner hadn't noticed, Steve leaned closer to the guard and lowered his voice. "Listen, Franklin. Yes, I was taken hostage last night. I got away, but the men who took me still have the kids."

Franklin nodded slowly.

"No one's had time to alert the local news about me," continued Steve. "The kids are still out there, Franklin, and I need your help."

"Are you kidding me? Where's Detective Williams?"

"He's following up on a tip," said Steve, without missing a beat. "Look, I don't have time to explain, alright? Every minute we spend taking is another minute the kids are in danger."

The guard scratched at his head. "What can I do?"

Steve was disgusted with himself for being such a good actor. He'd been undercover plenty of times before. It wasn't hard to be convincing. With Warner beside him, ensuring Steve pass a message or drop a hint about his situation, he was trapped.

Damn it, there had to be a way out of this.

"I need you to release an inmate into my custody. Samuel Ulani. We have reason to believe he may know where the kids are being held. The only way to do this is with Ulani's help. We're out of options, and out of time. We need him _now_."

Franklin shook his head and sighed. "There's a lot of paperwork involved in that, Commander. You know that."

"Just give me what's necessary and I'll fill the rest out later."

"I don't know..."

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated. "If you get in any trouble for this, I promise you I will personally call the governor and have her exonerate you of any wrong-doing. Please, Franklin, I need Ulani as soon as possible if we have any chance of seeing Grace and Charlie alive again."

He didn't need to fake the emotion in his voice. Frank heard it, and his features softened. Without another word, he turned and began rifling through a file cabinet for the appropriate forms. He returned with a clipboard and pen, which Steve took and began scribbling information as fast as he could.

Frank nodded towards Warner. "Who's your friend?"

Steve hadn't realized how close Warner hovered beside him, staring down at every stroke of his pen. "This is Jack. He's going to help me with Ulani."

Seeming satisfied with the response, Franklin declared he'd send for Ulani's immediate release into McGarrett's custody and called for a team to get the prisoner ready.

Steve wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. Was he really going to let this happen? Was he going to put Ulani's life in danger and give Jack what he wanted?

Warner tapped his foot impatiently as Steve continued filling out the paperwork. As he wrote, the text warped into illegible smudges, impossible to read. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and it was clearer, but only a moment later the pen was slipping from between his fingers and his shirt was scratchy at the collar.

 _Damn it, Danny, where are you?_

"Commander?"

Franklin's voice shoved Steve back into focus. He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"We moved as fast as we were able. Ulani is ready at the back gate."

Steve pushed his pen and clipboard aside. In the thirty minutes Franklin had been gone, he'd only managed to complete half his paperwork. "Thanks, Franklin. I really appreciate your help."

"Just find those kids, Steve."

He nodded, and felt sick.

Outside, Warner clapped him on the back, grinning wildly. "That wasn't so bad, huh?"

Steve gritted his teeth. He pushed Warner away and continued down the sidewalk, feeling defeated.

"That full immunity thing is pretty damn helpful," mused Warner. "I'm glad I got the right man for the job."

Steve stomped towards the back gates, refusing to say a word. Just a few more minutes and Ulani would be in the car, and Steve and the kids wouldn't be needed any more. He just had to make it through one last exchange with some guards, remain calm and casual, and he'd be off to the secluded farm that no one would ever find unless they knew where to look.

As Franklin promised, two guards had Ulani ready by the gates. They had Ulani dressed in a white shirt and plain slacks, with his long black hair tied back at his nape. The man appeared utterly confused.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Steve said as the gates buzzed open. "We'll return him as soon as we can."

"I'm not a freaking library book, man," said Ulani. "What's going on here?"

"What's going on is you're going to help me with my case. And if you cooperate, I may be able to get your sentence reduced. Sound good?"

Ulani raised his eyebrows. He stuck out his wrists as one of the guards worked at unlocking his handcuffs. "Seriously? What do I need to do?"

"I'll explain everything in the car."

One of the guards, name tag reading Henderson, smirked as the cuffs fell away. "You've got yourself a pretty good deal, Ulani. Enjoy being outdoors."

"Yeah," said the other guard. "If you're lucky you might get to spend one night away from a cell."

Steve grabbed Ulani by the shoulder. "And if he's _really_ lucky," he said, looking Henderson in the eye, "tonight he might even be sipping margaritas, watching the sunset on the beach."

"I have a feeling you won't be that nice to me," Ulani muttered.

Steve nodded his thanks to the guards, and prodded Ulani to walk. Warner held onto Ulani's other arm, ensuring he wasn't going to make a break for it. A part of Steve wished he would.

Behind them, Henderson pulled the gates shut and locked them. Ahead, the SUV pulled up to the walkway, windows tinted to disguise the men inside.

"So, what am I doing, exactly?" asked Ulani, looking to Steve.

Steve couldn't bring himself to answer.

Warner checked over his shoulder to make sure the guards were back inside the building. When he was sure they were, he pulled open the side door to the vehicle, revealing Ricci inside, smiling devilishly with a flour sack in his hands.

"What the hell is this?" said Ulani, taking a step backwards. He looked desperately towards Steve.

Steve yanked him forward, guilt churning his stomach.

"Get in," hissed Warner.

"What? What's going on? Are you guys really cops?"

"I said, get _in_."

Warner lunged forward and seized a fistful of Ulani's shirt. On autopilot, Steve helped his captor's shove Ulani into the bench seat next to Ricci, who promptly hooded him and brandished the zip ties. Every movement seemed mindless, automatic. Steve was the criminal. He had just become a kidnapper himself. Ulani was an idiot who loved his guns, but he wasn't a killer. He didn't deserve this.

"Hey, hey, go easy," Steve warned. He didn't like Ricci's roughness.

"Get inside, McGarrett," barked Warner, sliding into the backseat next to their hostage. Ulani shouted obscenities until Ricci shoved a gun against his temple. Although he was masked, Steve could picture the horror on Ulani's face. The betrayal. Cops were good guys, sworn to protect and serve the community.

And here was Steve, no worse than Warner.

But the kids...

He boarded the vehicle, reclaiming his spot up front. Quentin pulled out of the parking lot.

"McGarrett didn't screw anything up, did he?" asked Ricci.

"No, it was perfect. No one questioned a thing. It's amazing what people will do to save a couple of little kids."

Quentin laughed. "I never liked kids."

"Me, either," said Ricci. "Thank god we won't have ours around much longer."

Steve spun in his seat. "You promised you'd let them go," he reminded Warner. "That was the deal."

"Wait, you guys have those kids? The ones from the news?" Ulani exclaimed, earning another jab from Ricci's pistol.

"Jack," Steve growled.

"Relax, McGarrett," said Warner. "You're right. A deal is a deal."

Steve didn't miss the exchange of glances between Warner and Quentin, who cast his gaze to the rear-view and smirked.

Shit.

He knew it. He _knew it_ and he'd still went along with their plan. The Aces were never planning on freeing the kids. He'd cooperated to keep Kimo from harming the kids at the house, but what did it matter now? As soon as they arrived, they'd be dead.

Hell, maybe they were dead already.

Maybe that was part of the plan. Maybe while Steve was getting Ulani into his custody, Kimo was digging graves in the backyard.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He stood his elbow on the door and leaned his forehead against his hand, fighting away a tightness in his chest. His lungs were cinched like a drawstring, so deprived of air that spots began to invade the edges of his vision.

Steve wasn't immune to fear. But being a SEAL taught him how to control his fear, to turn it into energy to get him through whatever crisis he was facing.

Doing so had never been harder.

He had to do something. If he had any hope of saving the kids, he'd have to act. He'd have to fight. He didn't have a chance of taking down three men with guns—if he knocked one of them out, the second would shoot him through the head. No, he needed a way to take them out all at once.

Steve pondered his ideas for the entire forty minute drive. The car had been virtually silent, giving him optimal concentration. He knew what had to be done.

They passed Sunset Beach, and soon the gravel road across from the neon margarita bar came into view. Every curve in the road heightened Steve's anxiety as he realized he forgot to count how many curves they encountered the first time. What if he wasn't quick enough?

Then, finally, the farmhouse came into view. It was about two hundred yards away, just far enough to be out of view from Kimo at the house.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, Steve lunged for the wheel and yanked it to the side, sending the car spinning into the ditch.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Wow, nothing like a new episode with a heart-warming Steve and Charlie moment to get the motivation going! I'm getting married on Saturday, so after that updates should come sooner. Thank you all for being patient with me.**

 **Danny and the rest of the team didn't make it in this chapter, but he'll return next time! Also, for those concerned about the amount of violence Grace and Charlie are exposed to, feel free to PM me and I will (without any major spoilers) explain what I have in store for the kids. Keep in mind the fic is rated T, and I don't plan on having the violence or content being any worse than the TV show. Still, I understand that the kids being kidnapped and threatened makes some of you uneasy, so like I said, feel free to drop a message. Thanks again everyone! If you reviewed last chapter and didn't receive a reply, it's because my email is flooded with wedding stuff and I may have deleted it on accident. Be assured that your reviews and feedback are a huge motivator to write and are much appreciated!**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

For one terrifying minute, Steve was paralyzed.

He'd blacked out for a few seconds, and the transition back to consciousness was slow and nauseating due to the blood that had rushed to his head. Grimacing, he cracked open an eye, only to be attacked by a sharp sting. His brain commanded his arm to move, for his hand to swipe away the blood and sweat that trickled into his eyes, but his muscles were numb and uncooperative.

So, just for a minute, Steve remained where he was, blindly assessing his position.

He realized then that he had yet to take a breath. Either the crash had punched the air from his lungs, or his air supply was cut and he was simply waiting to suffocate. He concentrated hard, forcing his body to comply to his demands of oxygen. Finally, he gasped, sucking in acrid fumes of smoke and gas and blood.

The tang of copper hung on his tongue and coated the back of his throat. He couldn't swallow. As his body began breathing without reminder, a glorious, automatic cough burst from his mouth, expelling a wad of blood and saliva down the front of his shirt.

Steve groaned, his other senses finally creeping in. As he regained his bearings, he realized his body hung at an awkward angle. The seat belt was a protective arm across his chest, preventing him from collapsing onto the driver. His head lulled to one side, causing an enormous kink to assault his neck. He tested the use of his fingers by wiggling them slightly, then his wrists, then his entire arm. He managed to wipe away the blood that hindered his vision, and finally opened his eyes.

Then, everything hit him at once.

The car had careened into the ditch, impacting on the driver's side, and now laid on its side with Steve dangling over Quentin's body. Various aches and pains began to make themselves known. Nothing felt broken, so Steve once again attempted to lift his head. Despite the stiffness in his neck and the previous blow to his temple throbbing more than ever, he felt okay to move.

He _had_ to move.

Steve gritted his teeth together and struggled to reach for the door handle. It was too far. With the seat belt restraining him and the angle of the vehicle keeping him stuck leaning left, he was trapped.

He managed to look towards Quentin, doing a visual scan for signs of life. The driver's head had cracked against the window, undoubtedly shattering his skull. Bloody spiderweb cracks etched the glass like a morbid mosaic. His eyes were open, just barely, and Steve recognized the lifelessness there, as he had seen it so many times before.

He couldn't turn to peer into the backseat. It was devoid of movement and noise, meaning everyone was either dead or incapacitated in some way. Honestly, Steve didn't care either way.

He had to get out. He'd taken a huge risk, one that could have left him dead. But what other choice did he have? He would have been executed the moment he got back to the house, along with the kids... if they weren't dead already.

Steve gripped the seat belt with both hands and swung up his legs. He twisted himself sideways, a fiery pain ripping through every nerve ending, until the soles of his shoes were flat against the door. He panted hard, exhausted and sweating already. His shoulder blades brushed Quentin's body, fueling his urgency.

Steve sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and focused all his strength into his legs. He bent his knees and kicked, feeling the glass of the window give slightly beneath his feet. He reeled back again, this time letting out a cry of anguish as he broke through. He used his heels to clear protruding shards that would slice his hands when he climbed out. As the last pieces were knocked away, the proliferating pressure in his head stole his sight and sounded a ringing chorus in his ears.

He was fading fast. He needed to get upright _now_.

Steve unbuckled his seat belt and crashed onto Quentin's corpse. A disgusted shudder racked his frame when he heard the sound of crunching glass beneath him, knowing he'd just driven broken shards deeper into the dead man's brain.

Steve gagged, or maybe sobbed, as he reached out to brace himself. As he sat up, something hard dug into his thigh.

Quentin's gun.

Steve snatched it into his grip and checked the mag. Six bullets.

Holding the pistol, feeling the weight in his hand, made him feel the first glimmer of hope since the whole ordeal began. Unfortunately, Steve didn't have time to savor the sensation.

He flipped on the safety and tucked the gun into his waistband. Gripping the back of the seat, Steve hoisted himself up into a standing position, doing his best to avoid crushing Quentin further. With his head and shoulders now free of the vehicle, he lifted his arms and pulled himself out.

Finally, he stood on the crumpled skeleton of the car, knees wobbling and head reeling so fast he nearly toppled over. White smoke billowed from the hood and rolled into his face, irritating his eyes and causing them to water. Ducking his head, Steve swung himself over the edge of the overturned SUV and grabbed fistfuls of grass to secure himself to the side of the ditch. He climbed on all fours, feeling especially sore in his shoulders and neck, and rolled onto the gravel when he reached the road.

The rocks dug into his back, but he didn't care. He stared up at the sky, hearing the pops and creaks of settling metal, and took a moment to compose himself. Small cuts dotted his arms, and he couldn't see the damage to his face, but Steve had walked away from the crash virtually unscathed. The soldier in him wanted to go back and check on the passengers, but his paternal instinct to find the kids crushed any confliction.

Steve rose unsteadily to his feet. He reached to his waist, making sure the gun was still there. He braced himself for a long, painful walk, put one foot in front of the other, and trekked down the gravel road to the house.

He began with a limp, his left leg especially weak and bruised, but managed to walk off most of the discomfort. He swayed to the side and nearly lost his footing several times, dizzy from the pounding in his head. Occasionally his vision split in two, disorienting him so badly he was forced to stop and kneel to the grass to ensure he didn't fall.

The farmhouse finally became close enough where he feared Kimo would spot him approaching from the window. Steve switched off the safety and held the gun high as he crossed the lawn, bracing himself for the man to burst from the house at any minute.

His focus was unwavering. He had a mission to accomplish, and nothing would stop him. Not a concussion, not a car crash, not a bullet. Steve neared the front porch and ducked low. He peered into the living room window, searching for signs of movement.

He didn't see anyone inside. Treading quietly, Steve turned the doorknob and crept inside. He checked around the door and strained his ears for any sign of Kimo. The living area was quiet.

Steve kept the gun raised, his other hand gripping his wrist for support. He took another step forward, leaving the door open. As he pressed on, a draft from inside the house pulled the door shut with a heavy slam.

He heard the footsteps immediately, coming from the second floor.

Steve kept his finger on the trigger.

Kimo descended the steps, drawn toward the noise. The moment he came into view, Steve fired off a shot.

The bullet clipped the wall, sending Kimo ducking back into the stairway, cursing.

Steve dove for cover behind a tatty armchair. "Throw your gun to me and I won't shoot you," he called.

"What—?" Kimo sputtered. He poked his head around the corner, eyes blown wide with apprehension, and Steve fired again.

Another miss.

"Jack's dead," Steve shouted. "All your friends are dead, and you're next unless you surrender yourself." He sat up straight, resting his gun over the arm of the chair as a makeshift bulwark. "Don't be stupid, Kimo. You're not going to win this."

The silence that followed was excruciating. A single bead of sweat trickled down Steve's temple. He didn't move, he didn't blink, he didn't even breathe in fear of missing his next shot. For a moment, he anticipated Kimo would kick out his gun and walk out from the stairwell, hands on his head in surrender.

Steve didn't expect what happened next

Kimo burst from the stairs, eyes ablaze, and began to open fire. A bullet whizzed past Steve's ear and he gasped, dropping lower to the ground. Shots bounced wildly through the room, shattering windows, exploding door frames, chipping away drywall.

Knowing he needed to act before Kimo finished crossing the room, Steve laid on his side and pushed the wall with his feet. He slid out of his hiding place and tapped two bullets into the man's torso without a second thought.

The gun fell from Kimo's hand as he stumbled back. Two red spots blossomed across his shirt. He grabbed at his chest in disbelief, then locked eyes with Steve as he sank to the ground.

Steve stood slowly, finally tucking his gun away. He approached Kimo cautiously, as if the man would suddenly spring back to life and attack. He didn't allow himself to feel remorse for the life he'd taken, or stop to think how things could have ended differently. Nothing was over until he had the kids.

Steve patted the dead man's pockets until he found a cell phone. He dug it out and dialed Danny's number, hands trembling with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Cursing, Steve realized the call had dropped. He checked the home screen for a signal.

No reception.

"Damn it!"

He whipped the phone across the room and pinched the bridge of his nose. They were miles into the Hawaiian forest, of course there wouldn't be reception. Jack had been bluffing when he said he'd call Kimo to harm the kids if Steve screwed anything up.

Steve could practically feel his blood pressure rising. If he couldn't call for help, he'd have to walk. Could he make it more than five miles to town? And could he do it with the kids? What if the kids were hurt, and unable to walk on their own?

No, no. He couldn't think about that. He had to find them first, plan later.

A ring of keys glinted off Kimo's belt loop. They had to be the keys for the basement door.

"Grace!" Steve cried, bolting for the kitchen. He stuck the first key his fingers touched into the padlock and twisted. It fell open, and he yanked on the door so hard it nearly flew off its hinges. "Grace, I'm here. Grace?"

Steve barreled down the steps. At the bottom, he froze.

Grace was gone.

He stared incredulously at the spot where she'd sat for so long, the spot where he'd seen her just hours ago. Why would Kimo move her? Why would he take her from the room unless...

" _Grace_!" Steve screamed. He flew back up the stairs, frantic. He leaped over Kimo's body to search a hall closet, but it was empty. He hadn't acted fast enough. He'd wasted too much time weighing his options, and now Grace was missing like Charlie.

Panic flooded through him as he raced upstairs. Steve rounded the corner into a bedroom. A few pieces of odd furniture cluttered one corner, but was otherwise empty. Panting, Steve skidded into the hall and tried the next room. An old bed stood under a broken window, gray with dust. Steve dropped to his hands and knees and peered underneath.

Nothing.

He leaned his back against the side of the mattress, feeling faint from lack of breath. He bowed his head between his knees, defeated. He'd killed the kids. Oh, _god_ , he'd killed the kids. They were gone. He'd left them, and Kimo had taken them out to the jungle and...

Steve slammed his hands against the floor, crying out in frustration.

How could he leave now? He'd never be able to face Danny again. He'd never be able to look his partner in the eye and explain that he was responsible—

 _Thud_.

Steve jolted to attention. His eyes traveled around the room for the source of the noise. It was then he noticed the padlock on the closet door.

Kimo's keys were still in his grip. Steve scrambled to his feet, emotion making his whole body shake. He thrust the key into the lock, and when it popped open, threw it to the floor and ripped the door open.

A little boy was huddled in the corner of the small closet, whimpering and shielding his face with his hands. From where he stood, Steve could see the tremble of the boy's small body.

Relief brought Steve to his knees.

"Charlie," he said, his voice barely a squeak. His eyes burned hot with unexpected tears. "Charlie, buddy, it's okay. It's me. It's Uncle Steve."

Slowly, Charlie lowered his hands from his face, squinting from the light. Steve scrutinized him for any signs of injury or trauma. He noticed Charlie's hands were free from binds, and aside from a few floorburns on his elbows and knees, he appeared to be unharmed.

"Uncle Steve?"

Finally understanding, Charlie burst into tears and held out his arms, wanting to be held. Steve scooped him up, swallowing down his own emotion, and hugged him fiercely. Charlie wrapped his arms around Steve's neck and his legs around Steve's waist, clinging to him tightly.

"Oh, Charlie, thank god," Steve murmured, pressing kisses into the boy's hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid tears would spill out if he kept them open. Rocking Charlie in his arms, he was weak with relief, bones like jelly. Had he really been here the whole time, stuffed away in this closet?

"Did they hurt you?" Steve sniffled. He peeled the boy away, forcing their eyes to meet. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

Charlie nodded distractedly. He reached up and gingerly touched the cut on Steve's forehead.

"This?" Steve couldn't help but laugh. He took Charlie's hand and kissed his fingers. "This is nothing, buddy, I'm fine. Come here." And then he was hugging the boy again, because a dark park of him believed this would never happen, that he'd never be here, embracing the little boy he swore he'd protect with his life.

Charlie wiggled from his grip, and Steve was forced to pull away.

"Where's Grace?"

The question made Steve's heart plummet to his stomach. He'd finally gotten one kid back, only to lose another, and how the hell was that _fair_?

"I'm not sure," said Steve, because there was no way he was going to lie to this kid, not now. "But we're going to find her, and then we're going to go home. Sound good?"

Charlie nodded. "Is Danno here yet?"

"Not yet."

"Is he coming?"

"Yeah, buddy, he's coming." Steve used his thumb to wipe away a tear that rolled down Charlie's cheek. "Danno's coming, he's just having a hard time finding us. So what we're going to do is get Grace, and then get to a phone so we can call Danno to come pick us up. Does that sound like a good plan?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure you're okay? You're not hurt anywhere?"

"I'm okay."

Steve smiled and ruffled Charlie's hair before hoisting him up into his arms. His muscles protested the movements, and Steve realized the crash had injured him more than he'd initially thought. The strain on his shoulders was nearly debilitating. Now that his body had relaxed, it refused to revert to the adrenaline-fueled numbness that allowed him to walk from the wreckage to the house. Moving his neck too far to one side sent a bolt of pain shooting all the way down his spine, undoubtedly caused by whip-lash he'd sustained as the car plummeted into the ditch.

His left knee gave out as he rose to his feet, Charlie clinging to his front. Steve reached out for the door frame to keep his balance, making Charlie whimper.

Damn it. Making it back to town wasn't going to be easy.

The only thing that kept him upright was the thought of Grace, now missing like her brother, and getting both kids back to safety. Back to their father.

 _Feel free to show up any time now, Danny._

"Okay, Charlie, I need you to listen to me very carefully," said Steve, once he was certain he could carry the child without stumbling. "I need you to close your eyes, okay? Keep 'em shut, no peeking. I'll tell you when it's okay to open them, but you have to promise you won't look. Understand?"

Charlie whined fearfully and pressed his face into the crook of Steve's neck.

"Okay," Steve murmured, talking to himself more than Charlie. "Okay. Everything's fine. Everything's okay."

Slowly he walked, hugging Charlie close, feeling the boy's rapid pulse against his own chest. He placed one hand on the back of Charlie's head, keeping it nestled against his shoulder. Steve shuffled into the hall, barely lifting his feet in fear of his knees or ankles betraying him. At the stairwell he paused, reminding Charlie to again keep his eyes closed. One step at a time, Steve descended the stairs, every footfall a harrowing test of endurance. Chunks of drywall speckled the bottom steps, crunching loudly beneath his shoes.

Kimo's body was just feet away, motionless and pale. The two holes in his chest no longer bled. Steve cautiously stepped over the body on his way to the door. The barn and shed outside caught his attention. Grace had to be there. If Charlie was alive, there was a good chance Grace was, too. Where else could she be hidden?

But then Steve froze.

He blinked hard, trying to work out what his eyes were seeing through the window. Surely it was a delusion, some strange image conjured by his injured brain. Surely, from all the panic, all the fear pulsing through his blood, his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But the longer he stared, the longer he realized what he was looking at was real.

There, limping up the unpaved driveway, like a cockroach that just wouldn't die, was Jack Warner.

And Steve had to move.

He tore away from the window and carried Charlie into the kitchen, where he bent to the floor and placed the boy on his feet.

"It's okay, buddy, you can open your eyes now," said Steve. "Everything's okay."

Charlie did, reluctantly. His gaze settled once again on Steve's bleeding temple.

Steve stepped back, poking his head out from the wall separating the kitchen from the living area. Jack was still visible from the window, about a hundred yards away, struggling slowly to the house. He appeared to be in better condition than Steve, though the left side of his face shone with blood.

Steve pulled Quentin's gun from his waistband and slipped out the mag.

Two bullets.

He cursed under his breath. He'd wasted four shots taking out Kimo. Had he known Jack was alive, he would have used his ammo more sparingly. With his aching head and the fact that every view blinks made his vision double, it would be impossible to get off a shot from so far away. If Steve had any hope of putting Jack down for good, he needed to be close.

He knelt next to Charlie and placed his hands gently on the boy's shoulders.

"Where's Grace?" asked Charlie, chewing nervously on a finger.

Steve chose his words carefully, hoping the boy wouldn't detect the urgency in his voice. "Listen, Charlie. It's not safe to be in this house right now, understand? In order to be safe, we need to get away from here. But I can't do that without your sister. I can't leave her here by herself."

Steve pulled away from Charlie and checked the window again.

"Uncle Steve, what are you looking at?"

He should have emptied the clip into Warner and Ricci while he was in the car. Why hadn't he checked the men for a pulse? At the very least, he could have found a way to restrain them and keep them from leaving the vehicle. Now his mistake was going to cost him.

"Uncle Steve?"

Steve tore himself from Warner and dropped down beside Charlie once more, knees popping from the strain.

"Charlie, you need to listen to me very carefully," he instructed, throat tight. "I'm going to find your sister, I promise I'll find her, but I can't take you with me. And it's too dangerous to stay here, understand?"

Charlie shook his head back and forth, knitting his brow.

"It's too dangerous to stay here," Steve repeated. "But you can still help. You can help your sister. What I need you to do is go out the back door—that door right over there—and run into the jungle."

"No," Charlie murmured. He continued shaking his head, and held his arms out to Steve.

Steve gripped the boy's shoulders, holding him at bay. "Yes, Charlie, you need to do this. You run into the jungle as fast as you can—"

"No..."

"And as soon as you see a house, or a person—"

"No, no, no..."

"You tell them that you've been kidnapped and need to call nine-one-one—"

"Nononono—"

"And then call Danno, and tell him you're alright—"

"I want to go with you!"

And then Charlie was crying, and Steve swallowed down his own emotion, because he'd just got this kid back, god damn it, and now he was telling Charlie to run into the jungle alone but what other choice did he _have_?

"I know," soothed Steve. "I know. I want to go with you, too, buddy. But you have to do this, Charlie. You have to be brave for Grace. She needs you."

While Charlie thought it over, Steve checked on Warner. He'd made it about forty more yards since Steve last looked, and was now nearing the shed outside. They were running out of time.

Steve took Charlie into his arms for one last hug. "Can you do what I'm asking you, buddy? Can you help your sister and go get help?'

Charlie pulled away, rubbing at his nose. He wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hand and puffed out his chest. "I think I can do it," he said.

Steve beamed with pride. "I _know_ you can do it," he said, tugging at the hem of Charlie's superhero shirt, "because you're brave like Superman."

"I'm brave like Danno," Charlie corrected.

Steve's eyes misted so severely he couldn't see. He scrubbed a hand over his face and blinked hard, attempting to compose himself. When the tears were forced back, he looked into the eyes of the five-year-old before him. Danny's eyes.

What would his partner say to him? What would Danny do if Charlie ended up getting lost in the Hawaiian jungle? The island was small, and Steve was sure if choppers were in the air and dogs searched on land, Charlie would be found in no time. But the terrain was treacherous for a child. Dips on the uneven forest floor, as well as thick vines and underbrush that liked to claw at the feet of passers-by could easily pose a problem. Charlie could fall; twist an ankle, break a leg, hit his head.

Oh, man. Was this a good idea? What this the best course of action for the situation at hand? From a tactical standpoint, was this the best way to ensure Charlie's safety?

If he was in the field working a case, or deployed with his SEAL team somewhere overseas, Steve would have made an instant decision. Hesitation could get someone killed. He knew himself well enough to know to trust his gut, and his intuition was begging him to let Charlie go.

So why was this so _hard_?

"Come here," Steve murmured. He planted a kiss to Charlie's crown, and for several precious seconds the two remained with their foreheads pressed together. "I love you."

Charlie gripped a fistful of Steve's shirt and twisted it around his fingers. "I love you too, Uncle Steve."

He didn't have to check the window to know Warner was likely only steps away from the front porch. Steve took a deep breath and pulled away. With Charlie following, he opened the screen door leading outside. "Now go," he instructed. "Try to run in a straight line, and don't turn around, understand? As soon as you find a house or a person, make them call the police, okay? Or your daddy. Just get help."

Charlie nodded, a look of determination on his face. He balled his tiny hands into fists at his sides, and readied himself as if he was about to start a race.

From the other room, the unmistakable creak of the front door opening was as jarring as a clap of thunder. Steve opened the door wider. " _Go, go!"_ he whispered urgently, gesturing for Charlie to run. "Don't stop running!"

The little boy bolted like a track star, taking off through the overgrown lawn. Only a moment later he stumbled into the tree line, parting the brush and disappearing into the dense jungle.

Shoving aside his worry for now, Steve crept outside as well. He closed the door gently behind him. From inside the house, he heard Jack cry out in frustration.

"What the hell? Kimo!"

Jack had found his accomplice's body. Steve could only imagine the discovery would fuel Warner's rage, making him all the more dangerous.

He kept close to the side of the house, drawing his gun— _only two bullets_ —and working his brain to devise a plan with a favorable outcome. Jack Warner was a scumbag, but he should at least be given a chance to surrender. Steve wasn't a murderer. Besides, it was much more satisfying knowing the man would spend the rest of his life in prison rather than getting the easy way out.

Steve poked his head around the wall, glimpsing the front porch. He crouched to the ground, weapon ready, keeping his aim at the door. He remained calm, channeling all his focus into his one task, finally regaining the soldier mentality that had slipped away so many times over the past day. Despite his concentration, his body betrayed him once again with double vision, so distracting that he wavered on his feet. Steve shook his head, and the world fell back into place.

He only needed to wait a minute before Warner stomped out of the house, a teeth-baring sneer on his bruised and bloodied face. He paused on the front step, chest visibly rising and falling with each breath.

"Don't move, Jack."

Warner's head whipped to the side, expression not changing.

Steve moved cautiously, itching to pull the trigger but knowing he'd regret it if he did. "Put your hands behind your head and lock your fingers." When Warner didn't move, Steve shouted. " _Do it now_!"

Warner kept his hands at his sides. "You think you're going to shoot me?" He laughed humorously. "I have to say, McGarrett, I'm a little impressed. That was some quick thinking, taking the car off the road like that. Although I'm guessing most of your plan involved dumb luck."

Steve tightened his grip on the gun. "I'm not going to ask again, Jack. Put your hands up."

"And you even managed to get the jump on Kimo," said Warner, ignoring Steve and shaking his head. "I'm guessing he went out in a blaze of glory—can't really imagine him surrendering to anyone."

"You're right," said Steve. His head began to pound again. "I gave him a chance, like I'm giving you. He didn't take it, so I didn't have a choice."

"If you shoot me, you'll never find the boy."

Steve smirked. "I wouldn't count on that."

Then, before Steve's injured brain could process, Jack dropped to his knees, a wooden rail along the porch offering cover. Steve fired off one shot, which missed completely and tore off in the direction of the woods. The deafening sound caused one ear to pop, and fuzzy blackness to crawl into his vision. Steve staggered backwards, retreating to the side of the house for safety.

He caught sight of Warner's head popping up from behind the post, and a second later, a pistol was staring back at him.

Steve attempted to sidestep behind the house, but he wasn't quick enough. A tremendous force knocked him to the ground, gun flying from his grip. He opened his mouth, gasping for breath that had flew from his lungs. He lifted his head, searching for the source of exploding pain in his abdomen.

A bright circle of blood grew around his side, soaking his shirt. He hadn't even fully comprehended he'd been shot until he looked up to see Jack Warner looming down at him, gun pointed between Steve's eyes.

"You'd better hope you can still walk, McGarrett," he said. "We've still got work to do."


End file.
